should have heard the wood-thrushes, the orchard- 

 orioles— this whole morning chorus singing along 

 the creek ! No one may know how blissful, how 

 wide, how thrilling the singing of birds can be 

 unless he has listened when the summer mists 

 are rising over Eacoon Creek. 



There is no song-hour after sunrise to compare 

 with this for spirit and volume of sound. The 

 difference between the singing in the dusk and 

 in the dawn is the difference between the slow, 

 sweet melody of a dirge and the triumphant, 

 full-voiced peal of a wedding march. Even one 

 who has always lived in the country can scarcely 

 believe his ears the first time he is afield in 

 June at the birds' awaking-hour. 



Eobins led the singing along the creek. They 

 always do. In New Jersey, Massachusetts, Mich- 

 igan,— everywhere it is the same, — they out- 

 number all rivals three to one. It is necessary 

 to listen closely in order to distinguish the other 

 voices. This particular morning, however, the 

 wood-thrushes were all arranged up the copsy 

 hillside at my back, and so reinforced each other 

 that their part was not overborne by robin song. 

 One of the thrushes was perched upon a willow 

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