FEBRUARY. 39 



My overturning of every object that I was able to move 

 made it no less in place than before ; the confusion was 

 no worse confounded because of my interference. Verily, 

 for once, I thought, I am absolutely alone. But it was 

 not to be. Even when the elements conspire to drive life 

 into the background — as they seemed bent upon doing to- 

 day—the most that we can hope, if desirous of solitude, 

 is to have our senses dulled to the proximity of our neigh- 

 bors. I stamped upon the brittle twigs covering the sandy 

 shore, that the sound of their cracking might break the 

 monotony of the river's ripple, and broke the glossy wil- 

 low sprouts that chanced in my way, to hear their scream- 

 ing swish as I lashed the dead air; and my desperate 

 efforts to rouse the sleepers startled at last one poor, 

 crouching, timid song-sparrow that thridded the tangled 

 underbrush as might a mouse. I had learned what silence 

 really meant, and realized what absolute deafness must be. 

 It was enough to see a bird and not hear it. Here the 

 despised meadow-mouse becomes the song-bird's superior, 

 for with swifter feet it can find a passage even through 

 flood-tossed driftwood. 



But there was at least one sparrow abroad, and I was 

 happier from that moment. Trusting the bird would re- 

 consider its needless flight and return, I waited for some 

 minutes, and not in vain. Back it came, flying now, in- 

 stead of running, and when very near me clutched a 

 swaying willow branch and sang. I have heard birds' 

 songs under endless conditions, but never such hollow 

 mockery as this. Half the notes were caught and 

 strangled, while such as escaped were shorn of all their 

 sweetness. The sparrow knew that it had sadly blun- 

 dered, and dropped silently into the grass beneath it. 

 Dead days, such as this, tolerate no music, not even a dol- 

 orous dirge. 



Let me ask why, if one sparrow be abroad, there may 



