Page:Famous Living Americans, with Portraits.djvu/108

JOHN BUBROUGHS 89 againBt the morning sky, and above the wide expanse of fields, what delight we have in it. It is not the concord of sweet sounds, it is the soaring spirit of gladness and ecstasy rain- ing down upon us from Heaven 's gates. ' ' To properly hear and appreciate bird songs, one must hear with that inward ear that gives beauty and meaning to the note. Bird songs are a part of nature that lies about us en- tirely occupied with her own affairs, and quite regardless of our presence. Hence it is with them as it is with so many other things in nature — they are what we make them; the ear that hears them must be half creative. ' ' What heart so unresponsive as not to appreciate his inim- itable description of the bluebird! **And yonder bluebird with the earth tinge on his breast and the sky tinge on his back — did he come down out of Heaven on that bright March morning when he told us softly and plaintively that, *If we pleased, spring had come'f Indeed, there is nothing in the return of the birds more curious and suggestive than in the first appearance or rumors of appearance of this little blue coat. The bird at first seems a mere wandering voice in the air; one hears the call or carol on some bright March morning but is uncertain of its source or direction ; it falls like a drop of rain when no cloud is visible ; one looks and listens but to no purpose. The weather changes, perhaps a cold snap with snow comes on, and it may be a week before I hear the note again, and this time, or the next perchance, see the bird sitting on a stake or a fence, lifting his wing as he calls cheerily to his mate. Its notes come now daily more frequently. The birds multiply and flitting from point to point call and warble more confidently and gleefully. . . But as the season advances, they drift more and more into the background. Schemes of conquest which they had at first seemed bent upon are aban- doned, and they settle down very quietly in their old quarters in remote stumpy fields." At the age of more than three score years and ten, we find John Burroughs writing in his Summit of the Years : There is no other joy in life like mental and bodily activ- ity, like keeping up a live interest in the world of thought and