wilderness, they lighten vaster shades than any 

 they know of, sound their note of courage and 

 well-being for other ears than theirs. What blessed 

 transformation from the songless ages — from that 

 slimy reptilian world where was no music, no 

 song — to this unpaid minstrelsy of the woods and 

 fields! They have served us these many years — 

 the sweet singers, the true birds of paradise, with 

 power to lift us from our dull, unmelodious 

 thoughts into their harmonious world. 



As I was following the course of a mountain 

 stream through the leafless woods early in April, 

 the silence was broken by a strange musical alarm. 

 It was the Louisiana water-thrush, but might have 

 been the pipes of Pan, so wild and woodland was 

 it. The first notes were high and startlingly loud 

 and clear, while the song descended the scale and 

 became softer and softer till it died away. This is 

 one of the bird voices that are untamed, that seem 

 to belong to impersonal Nature. It is wholly sav- 

 age — a piece of the wilderness, untouched by the 

 presence of man. These voices do not strike the 

 human and sympathetic chords, but ally one with 

 the wilderness. Such are the cry of the loon, 

 the melody of the ruby kinglet and the song of 



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