rtainly it
seems unreasonable to suppose that creatures who are able to soar at
will into the heavens should be without other equally angelic
attributes. But, be that as it may, our friends, the birds, do
undeniably set us a good example in several respects. To mention only
one, how becoming is their observance of morning and evening song! In
spite of their industrious spirit (and few of us labor more hours
daily), neither their first nor their last thoughts are given to the
question, What shall we eat, and what shall we drink? Possibly their
habit of saluting the rising and setting sun may be thought to favor the
theory that the worship of the god of day was the original religion. I
know nothing about that. But it would be a sad change if the birds,
declining from their present beautiful custom, were to sleep and work,
work and sleep, with no holy hour between, as is too much the case with
the being who, according to his own pharisaic notion, is the only
religious animal.

In the season, however, the woods are by no means silent, even at
noonday. Many species (such as the vireos and warblers, who get their
living amid the foliage of trees) sing as they work; while the thrushes
and others, who keep business and pleasure more distinct, are often too
happy to go many hours together without a hymn. I have even seen robins
singing without quitting the turf; but that is rather unusual, for
somehow birds have come to feel that they must get away from the ground
when the lyrical mood is upon them. This may be a thing of sentiment
(for is not language full of uncomplimentary allusions to earth and
earthliness?), but more likely it is prudential. The gift of song is no
doubt a dangerous blessing to creatures who have so many enemies, and we
can readily believe that they have found it safer to be up where they
can look about them while thus publishing their whereabouts.

A very interesting exception to this rule is the savanna sparrow, who
sings habitually from the ground. But even he shares the common feeling,
and stretches himself to his full height with an earnestness which is
almost laughable, in view of the result; for his notes are hardly louder
than a cricket's chirp. Probably he has fallen into this lowly habit
from living in meadows and salt marshes, where bushes and trees are not
readily to be come at; and it is worth noticing that, in the case of the
skylark and the white-winged blackbird, the same conditions have led