cordant whole. To arouse suddenly from a sound 

 sleep in the woods at dawn while this chant is in 

 progress, is like awakening in another sphere, 

 where sings the choir celestial. We slip from 

 sleep into the heaven of song, and it requires an- 

 other awakening to bring us to consciousness of 

 this aftual world about us. 



They are the troubadours these birds, the wan- 

 derers whose souls are in their voices. What bold 

 romantic singers are the cardinal and the rose- 

 breasted grosbeak — the lords of song! When the 

 cardinal comes North he appears to feel out of his 

 element and modestly withdraws. But in the South 

 he dominates the swamp and adjoining cotton- 

 fields with his rollicking, melodious voice. A gay 

 minstrel, he compels attention. These voices of 

 the cypress swamp^ are clear and bright in contrast 

 with their dismal surroundings. The bell-like note 

 of the tufted titmouse in the treetops, and the 

 brave, cheery song of the Carolina wren lighten 

 those fearsome shades. The wren carries his sun- 

 shine with him. There is no minor in his song; 

 he is never discouraged, any more than the chick- 

 adee. Day after day that voice rings true — all's 

 well with the world. Brave voices singing in the 



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