192 
WILD SCENES AND SONG-BIRDS. 
that sang a cheering song from ont the primeval forests here 
unto your fathers. The wolves had howled their greeting in 
chorus to the wintry winds, but the gentle salutation of the 
Wood Thrush came, the earliest harbinger of Spring and 
hope. Seeming as though the spirit of solitude that had so 
long infused those hoary aisles with harmony, of whispering 
boughs, now clothed its daedal hymn in voice most meet for 
* human ear, and came in that plumed form to bid the weary 
wanderers welcome to the new empire nature yielded. What 
a welcome ! Conquerors never found such. A melody that 
haunted every shade, and filled the ear of silence, where, 
deep within, she leaned upon her mossy couch to listen — 
touched their rude hearts with its tender spell, and fired 
their souls with loftier daring ; for that clear, loud and mel- 
low minstrelsy was to them as the first fresh song of free- 
dom on a new-found earth. Was not the little bird then a 
comforter to these, the hardy pioneers of freedom ? Their 
stout souls found fittest inspiration in its real voice, for actual 
deeds that have lived after them in honor. Above the turmoil 
of their rough struggle with the elements, the savage beasts 
and more ferocious savages, that gentle song rose ever in its 
wild and sweet recall to win the soothed Passions back to 
peace and calm repose. Men, however stern and embittered 
by unceasing conflict, do not easily get away from the refin- 
ing spell of music, and notes such as those of the Wood 
Thrush — that fill the common air like sun-beams — will search 
the clefts of these rugged natures as do those same sun-beams 
when they pierce ice-mailed cliffe to find the Alpine Eose 
hidden there, and glow in blushes on its tender cheek. There 
is a soft spot, even in the rough hunter's heart, and the en- 
chantment of that song will reach it somewhere, in the drear, 
deep solitudes of pathless wilderness, all unaware, and then 
the warm tears welled up with his ^^earnings, will leave him 
humanized again — and is not the little bird a comforter to 
him ? 
Aye, and it has been the angel to the weary and way-far- 
