FIELD AND HEDGEROW. 
HOURS OF SPRING. 
IT is sweet on awaking in the early morn to listen to 
the small bird singing on the tree. No sound of voice 
or flute is like to the bird’s song; there is something in 
it distinct and separate from all other notes. The throat 
of woman gives forth a more perfect music, and the 
organ is the glory of man’s soul. The bird upon the 
tree utters the meaning of the wind—a voice of the 
grass and wild flower, words of the green leaf; they 
speak through that slender tone. Sweetness of dew 
and rifts of sunshine, the dark hawthorn touched with 
breadths of open bud, the odour of the air, the colour 
of the daffodil—all that is delicious and beloved of 
spring-time are expressed in hissong. Genius is nature, 
and his lay, like the sap in the bough from which he 
sings, rises without thought. Nor is it necessary that 
it should be a song; a few short notes in the sharp 
spring morning are sufficient to stir the heart. But 
yesterday the least of them all came to a bough by my 
window, and in his call I heard the sweet-briar wind 
rushing over the young grass. Refulgent fall the golden 
rays of the sun; a minute only, the clouds cover him 
B 
