" Not only the masters who planted those trees, but the
houses that sheltered them have passed away forever. The trees
no longer bear much fruit, but are still the homes of vast
numbers of shy wood-folk.
What a ringing medley greeted us as we passed. The cuckoo was
calling amid his caterpillar feasting. An indigo bunting from a
tall maple sang his clear, sweet notes. The silvery phrases of
the orchard oriole fell on the ear like a shower of "liquid
pearls." No other songster save the vireo is so prodigal of his
minstrelsy. Occasionally we caught the loud, querulous notes of
the great crested flycatcher. Maryland yellow throats sang,
"witchery, witchery, witchery" down among the bushy fence rows.
Wren notes fell like silvery drops of water through the sunlit
air, and redstarts made the place ring with their rich clear
notes. Nature here was throbbing with warm, full life, gleaming
with rich tints, and her exuberant energy and persistent force
were daily working new miracles.
"Every clod feels a stir of might,
An instinct within it that reaches and towers
And groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in the grass and flowers."
Along the road at various places people have balsam pillows for
sale. We made no purchase, for why buy a pillow when the whole
forest is ours to enjoy? We need only to smell the fragrance of
balsam buds and our cares are smothered, and we pace along some
mountain brook with buoyant step and happy heart that keeps time
to its purling, liquid voice.
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