Nature seemed to have adorned herself richly for our departure;
no sky could have been more blue, no grass more green and no
trees more full of glistening leaves and singing birds. There
was an indescribable freshness and glory on the sunny hills and
shining sky. The breeze sifted through the trees and over the
rim of the circling slopes, causing the maple leaves to show
silver and wafting fragrance from a thousand fountains of
sweetness. At brief intervals the loud, rich notes of the
Maryland Yellow Throat and the high pitched song of the indigo
bunting resounded from the bushes near Glen-Miller park of
Richmond, Ind. A cardinal shot across the road like a burning
arrow, and his ringing challenge was answered by the softly
warbled notes of a bluebird; while down by the spring came the
liquid song of the wood thrush, pure, clear, and serene,
speaking the soul of the dewy morn.
We did not say our prayers, but paused reverently beneath the
broad leaved maple in the park to listen to the thrushes' matin
and knelt at the crystal flowing spring to fill our water
bottles. As we were thus employed a red squirrel, who had the
idea that the whole park was his, crossed and recrossed our path
to see what strange creatures dare intrude at his drinking
fountain. Coming nearer, chattering and scolding as only a red
squirrel can, he began a speculation as to our character in
rapid broken coughs and sniffs, pouring forth a torrent of
threatening abuse in his snickering wheezy manner; "but, like
some people you may know, his defiance was mostly bluster--he
loves to make a noise.
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