A ’Thousand- Mile Walk 
tributes of matter, into whatever forms it may 
be organized. Drops and sprays of air are 
specialized, and made to plash and churn in the 
bosom of a lark, as infinitesimal portions of 
air plash and sing about the angles and hollows 
of sand-grains, as perfectly composed and pre- 
destined as the rejoicing anthems of worlds; 
but our senses are not fine enough to catch 
the tones. Fancy the waving, pulsing melody 
of the vast flower-congregations of the Hollow 
flowing from myriad voices of tuned petal and 
pistil, and heaps of sculptured pollen. Scarce 
one note is for us ; nevertheless, God be thanked 
for this blessed instrument hid beneath the 
feathers of a lark. 
The eagle does not dwell in the Hollow; he 
only floats there to hunt the long-eared hare. 
One day I saw a fine specimen alight upon a 
hillside. I was at first puzzled to know what 
power could fetch the sky-king down into the 
grass with the larks. Watching him attentively, 
I soon discovered the cause of his earthiness. 
He was hungry and stood watching a long- 
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