The warblers and shy wood-birds you pursued with such
glee ever so many summers ago, and whose names you taught to some
beloved youth who now, perchance, sleeps amid his native hills, no
marks of time or change cling to them; and when you walk out to the
strange woods, there they are, mocking you with their ever-renewed
and joyous youth. The call of the high-holes, the whistle of the
quail, the strong piercing note of the meadowlark, the drumming of
the grouse,--how these sounds ignore the years, and strike on the
ear with the melody of that springtime when the world was young,
and life was all holiday and romance!
During any unusual tension of the feelings or emotions, how the
note or song of a single bird will sink into the memory, and become
inseparably associated with your grief or joy! Shall I ever again
be able to hear the song of the oriole without being pierced
through and through? Can it ever be other than a dirge for the dead
to me? Day after day, and week after week, this bird whistled and
warbled in a mulberry by the door, while sorrow, like a pall,
darkened my day. So loud and persistent was the singer that his
note teased and worried my excited ear.
"Hearken to yon pine warbler,
Singing aloft in the tree!
Hearest thou, O traveler!
What he singeth to me?
"Not unless God made sharp thine ear
With sorrow such as mine,
Out of that delicate lay couldst thou
Its heavy tale divine.
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