A MARCH. RAMBLE. 25 



ment of the wings he turns upon this slender look- 

 out, as if operated on by the batteries, and shows 

 his soiled breast. His purling song has brought a 

 female near. 



What is the cause of this low, musical, continued 

 noise, not like the distant roar of ocean in the 

 sea shell, but a murmuring in tenor, perpetually 

 sounding in your ears — a phantom sound that 

 suggests the indistinct hum of insects, the chirp- 

 ing of crickets, or the faint peeping of birds or 

 frogs ? It is heard everywhere, this ghost din, but 

 it is quickly banished as the eat catches any real 

 voice of Nature, as the brook's music, the cawing 

 of the crows, or even the slightest stir of the air. 

 Is not this what Thoreau means when he speaks 

 of the " day song " ? Occasionally an imaginary 

 cricket's chirp, or a bird's brief warble seems more 

 pronounced, and causes one to turn his head to 

 see the wing that produced it, but it is a vain 

 search, and leads you on like will-o'-the-wisp, with 

 the same sound wherever you may go — 



"A stillness, fresh and audible, 

 As if the hand of music through 

 The sombre robes of silence drew 

 A thread of golden gossamer." 



