58 ON THE BIRDS' HIGHWAY 



the Fountain of Youth if we could bathe 

 in its limpid waters; and yet the little 

 singer asks nothing for 

 his song, except the right 

 to sing it unmolested to 

 his better half and to his 

 Maker. As the days 

 grow longer we hear their 

 voices in chorus from 

 daybreak to twilight and our ears become 

 indurated to their song, although more 

 beautiful as the performers become en- 

 amored by the season, until we hear some 

 individual bird reverse or vary his lay. 



As the last ray of the golden sun fades 

 in the sky of an April afternoon and the 

 dusky afterglow is at hand, we listen to 

 the evensong of the robins. Now from 

 that low fence rail, now from the top of 

 yonder tree comes the uncertain, often 

 broken strain, though plaintive, exquisite 

 and inspiring. It is an hour when the 

 spirit of quietude and contentment rests 

 on all and the song takes a peculiar hold 

 upon us. We whisper, — 



" Come to me, Robin! The daylight is dying. 

 Come to me now; 

 Come, ere the cypress-tree over me sighing. 



