dew-laid
road down which I came still slumbered undisturbed; the village cows had
not been milked, and the pasture slope, rounding with a feminine grace of
curve and form, lay asleep, with its sedgy fingers trailing in the water;
even the locomotive in the little terminal round-house over the hill was
not awake and wheezing. But the creek people were stirring--except the
frogs. They were growing sleepy. The long June night they had improved,
soberly, philosophically; and now, seeing nothing worth while in the dawn
of this wonder day, they had begun to doze. But the birds were alive, full
of the crisp June morning, of its overflow of gladness, and were telling
their joy in chorus up and down both banks of the creek.

Hearkneth thise blisful briddes how they singe.

Do you mean out in Finsbury Moor, Father Chaucer? They were sweet along
the banks of the Walbrook, I know, for among them "maken melodye" were the
skylark, ethereal minstrel! and the nightingale. But, Father Chaucer, you
should have heard the wood-thrushes, the orchard-orioles--this whole
morning chorus singing along the creek! No one may know how blissful, how
wide, how thrilling the singing of birds can be unless he has listened
when the summer mists are rising over Racoon Creek.

There is no song-hour after sun rise to compare with this for spirit and
volume of sound. The difference between the singing in the dusk and in the
dawn is the difference between the slow, sweet melody of a dirge and the
triumphant, full-voiced peal of a wedding march. Even one who has always
lived in the country can scarcely believe his ears the first time he is
afield in June at the birds' awaking-hour.

Robins led the singing along the creek. They always do. In New Jersey,
Massachusetts, Michigan,--everywhere it is the same,--they out-number all
rivals three to one. It is necessary to listen closely in order to
distinguish the other voices. This particular morning, however, the
wood-thrushes were all arranged up the copsy hillside at my back, and so
reinforced each other that their part was not overborne by robin song. One
of the thrushes was perched upon a willow stub along the edge of the
water, so near that I could see every flirt of his wings, could almost
count the big spots in his sides. Softly, calmly, with the purest joy he
sang, pausing at the end of every few bars to preen and call. His song was
the soul of serenity, of all that is spiritual. Accompanied by the l