their world and with wood life. They do not 

 touch our world, however, nor set in motion the 

 delicate mechanism of the emotions. But let a 

 bluebird pass overhead all unseen, warbling his 

 celestial " Pure ! Pure ! Pure ! " — let that significant 

 note fall on the ear and for reasons unknown it 

 sinks into the soul, into the abyss o( feeling, and 

 this as mysteriously rises in a delicious flood to the 

 surface. Whence has the bluebird his power, that 

 by the mere quality of tone he can exert this spell ? 

 Some bird voices are so positive, so emphatically 

 cheerful, that one never hears them without feeling 

 better for it. The chickadee in the winter woods 

 is an instance of this. If you feel dreary, he does 

 not. Nothing can dampen his spirits. He hopped 

 out of the nest a cheery little chap, and it is never 

 otherwise with him. In all his days he has never 

 had a regret, never transgressed any law, never 

 been unhappy. The voice of the chewink, too, is 

 eminently sane, a mild, buoyant utterance indica- 

 tive of an even disposition. He is never more 

 hopeful, nor less so, but always exactly the same. 

 Perhaps the birds have not what we call feeling, 

 but if not, why do they express themselves ? What 

 else would prompt these songs? The clear sweet 



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