THE SECRET OF APPRECrATION. 219 



own to distract my mind. I could have forgiven 

 almost any trick a bird had seen fit to play me. 

 The brown creeper, just from his haunt in some 

 primeval forest of British America, went hitching up 

 a tree-bole in his own quaint way without even the 

 courtesy of a friendly how-d'-you-do ; but I forgave 

 the slight, and told him he was a poet, — there was 

 rhythm in every movement, and his feathers rhymed 

 each with its fellow. 



Across the breezy hills to the river valley I made 

 my way in lightsome mood, finding birds a-plenty 

 wherever I went. More than once the song-spar- 

 rows broke into their autumnal twitter, aftermath of 

 their springtime choruses when they were in full 

 tone ; and occasionally the Carolina wren uttered 

 his stirring reveille, which, though perhaps not tune- 

 ful in itself, seemed tuneful to me that day, because 

 there was music in my own mind. When you are 

 in the right mood, even the distant caw of the crow 

 or the plaintive cry of the blue jay sets the harp of 

 your soul to melody ; while the riotous piping of the 

 cardinal grossbeak makes you feel as if you were 

 " married to immortal verse." 



But, alas ! when " loathed melancholy, of Cer- 

 berus and blackest midnight born," is your unbidden 

 companion, every overture of Nature is a burden, an 

 intrusion into the privacy of your grief, and — 



" Vainly morning spreads her lure 

 Of a sky serene and pure." 



In a leaf-Strewn arcade beneath the overarching 

 bushes hard by the river, were the merry juncos, my 



