8 
WILD SCENES AND SONG-BIRDS. 
tliat wild music is in vain for us. We can only dream of it 
as tlie thirsty Arab dreameth of the palm-trees and the foun- 
tain — and as to 
" How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night !" 
we can only tell when these memories babble to our sleep ! 
To be sure we sometime since did steal an hour from our 
duties, and run away like a truant school-boy to the country, 
emulous of the odors of new-mowm hay upon our garments ! 
We caught this infection of sweetness w^hile "loafing" on 
the shady side of the ricks out in the shorn meadows, with 
eyes half closed, listening to Bobby Linkum chirruping his 
saucy thoughts about the despoliation of his forage-grounds. 
He is a very chatty, gay, abusive fellow, Kobert Linkum 
is. The utile et didci he has no respect for. What matter is 
it to him that grass smells sw^eeter for being cut, and that it 
makes the heavy wains go creaking to the barns, and the far- 
mer's canvas pocket heavier too, when all this curtails his 
lineal prerogative of bugs and butterflies — puts him to shifts 
for " findings" to keep that wide-mouthed crew of little 
brawlers quiet he has hid yonder in the shrubs ? 
One can see plainly he does not like it. He comes flutter 
ing sideways, chattering, raving and scolding, just above our 
heads, his eye cocked downwards, with a connoisseuring 
look, at our proceeding. 
He evidently thinks we are an awkward set of fellows, be- 
sides being mischief-doers. 
It does gladden one's eyes to see these waving lakes of 
green — heavy and deep — the rich promise of a golden prime. 
And then the fruits ! The pregnant winds from the dew- 
dropping south, since Lang Syne, have hardly been so prod- 
igal; the ruddy flushing from under the green leaves of 
shiny clusters, deepens all the air, and clothes the trees right 
royally. 
We came back half mourning at our lot being cast amidst 
the stifling streets of Gotham, and more than half envying 
