80 AT THE NORTH OF BEARCAMP WATER. 
against the violet, silver, and orange. A full 
hour had sped by since I first noted the coming 
of the day, and still the earth below slept on. 
Hark ! up from the deep valley below the Cow 
comes a single bird-voice, but scarcely are its 
notes sprinkled upon the cool, clear air, when a 
dozen, yes, fifty singers join their voices in a 
medley of morning music. The first songster 
was a white-throat, and the bulk of the chorus 
was made up of juncos and white-throats, the 
stronger song of Swainson’s and hermit thrushes 
coming in clearly now and then from points 
more distant from the peak. There was ecstasy 
in those matins. No sleepy choir of mortal 
men or women ever raised such honest, buoyant 
music in honor of the day’s coming. The birds 
love the day, and they love life for all that each 
day brings. They labor singing, and they sing 
their vespers, as they sing their matins, with 
hearts overflowing with joy and thanksgiving. 
There is something inexpressibly touching and 
inspiring in the combination of fading night, 
with its planets still glowing, and the bird’s 
song of welcome to the day. Night is more 
eloquent than day in telling of the wonders of 
the vast creation. Day tells less of distance, 
more of detail; less of peace, more of contest; 
less of immortality, more of the perishable. The 
sun, with its dazzling light and burning heat, 
