140 THROUGH LIBRARY WINDOWS 



the Song Sparrow? How it always charms me, 

 have heard it from my boyhood, it never loses 

 key nor fails of a delicious intoxication. Pre- 

 cious as it is, I have never found an adjective 

 quite good enough for that bit of thrilling 

 music. True of him as of every real artist, he 

 is in love with his part. How consciously and 

 daintily he flutters about. It is real music just 

 to watch him. He says with such inimitable 

 graces, "Don't you want to hear me sing?" — 

 and whether you will or no, with uplifted head 

 out comes his cheeriest melody and you are so 

 glad, gladder than you can tell. He sings as 

 one possessed, fairly beside himself with strong 

 passion. But it is always a joyous song, no 

 matter what the hour or weather. He sings 

 out of the joy of his heart. He welcomes the 

 dawn and the sunrise, he welcomes every hour, 

 high noon and sunset and deepening night shad- 

 ows, shady days and rainy days, from morning 

 to evening he is happy and busy. No bird sings 

 so often and so much and so entrancingly ; he 

 knows how and does it all so royally. He is a 

 lover of old fields and weedy old lichen-covered 

 rail fences, old cattle paths where the grass 

 is the sweetest, weedy banks of sluggish brooks 

 that wind indolently among mossy boulders 

 and tangled thickets, in our garden he loiters 



