It told in sweetest phrases of the lives of the vines, the 
shrubs, the flowers, and the trees; and of all the joys and > 
burdens of the little forest folks. It rambled on about the 
babbling brooks, and rivers, and whispered of the splashing 
falls, where the maidenhair fern bathed in spray and 
“trembled at the reflection of her own loveliness” in the pool 
below. It hinted of hidden homes near by, which had been 
brimming with insistent life, demanding food and training. | 
It promised future joys in sunny Southland, after moonlit 
| nights — of airy travel over blissful paths through starry 
-gpace. — | 
The spirit of song was leader of the oy caine orches- 
tra, which was so well attuned that but one magical in- 
strument could be heard. Gradually came the realization — 
- that here were no wind or stringed contrivances but instead 
that the tiny vocal chords of ten thousand Russet-backed 
‘Thrushes were pealing in unison the dominant melody in 
this madrigal of dawn. 
‘For a time no other. birds were el then “Hear me! 
Hear me! Oh! What a wondrous day! Sweet!” fluted the 
Rusty Song Sparrow of the Olympics, and the reedy carol. 
of the Western Winter Wren brought memories of other | 
places. The Western Robin occasionally blew his treble 
horn, the Steller Jay sprinkled in a few harsh notes, the 
Oregon Towhee sounded his melancholy cello, while the 
Western Belted Kingfisher played a few notes on his devil’s 
fiddle; but: the listener knew in her thrilled soul that this | 
symphony was given by the shy olive-brown citizens of the 
forest, and that the other birds were an audience, except 
when their emotions bubbled over into an instant’s song. 
For half an hour the forest heard. All at once, as © 
_ suddenly as it began, the concert was a memory to the 
- woman who wandered down to the magical river hoping to 
| discover other mysteries. The Indian canoe with the three 
old squaws that were glimpsed under arching branches 
starts a different story, and this chapter on Robin’s relatives 
aba | 
