" hobo " across a lake than I am by the liquid notes of the hermit-thrush. Something that goes deeper with me is the whistling scream of the circling hen-hawk, as he mounts the dizzy spirals of the sky, than there is in the cat-bird's jocund song. I prefer the " Too, hoo, hoo " of the "boding owl" from his perch in the dark hemlocks, to the robin's evening lay. The owl starts the " goose-flesh " on me ; it is as if some phase of the night side of nature had found a voice for itself. Even the muffled "honk " of wild geese at nightfall moved Bryant to write the finest poem in all bird literature. There is in it a loftiness of feeling and beauty of expression that place it in the first ranks of short poems. No melody of singing bird could have moved him like this wild cry, shouted down from the depths of the twilight sky by this flock of chartless and compassless voyagers.
To learn to like these voices and aspects of nature is to get more out of life that is worth having ; to neglect them is to pass by the sources of true and healthy enjoyment. While such negligence may not be a sin, it is an ill-mannered reception of a princely birthright. "To consider the lilies how they grow, and notice that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of them," is not an idle sauntering by