nd reached a point of safety the other side of the fence than
he gave utterance to sentiments which wholly disabused my mind of all
faith in his previous professions of reform.
I have never been able to understand what pleasure can accrue from the
spoliation of the homes of birds, the beautiful musical creatures that
contribute so largely toward making the world cheerful. One of the
pleasantest recollections of my boyhood is that in all that active
period I never once killed or wounded a bird or robbed its nest. And I
think that the kindest act I ever did--at least the one which I recall
with the most satisfaction--was my release of a caged bird. A
careless, heedless neighbor had caught and caged a redbird, and the
mournful twittering of the poor creature as he fluttered incessantly
behind the bars of his prison pained and haunted me. The redbird can
never be reconciled to confinement; he is of the forest; the wildness
of his peculiar note indicates the restlessness of his nature. So for
nearly a year the melancholy twittering and the fluttering of that
caged bird haunted me.
One morning--it was in the gracious May time--I awoke early. The sun
was just coming up and was kissing the tears from lovely Nature's face.
The air was full of coolness and of sweet smells. Then, hearing the
querulous note of the imprisoned bird upon the porch yonder, I
determined to set the poor thing free. So I dressed myself and stole
out into the graciousness of the early morning. To my last day I shall
not forget the delight, the rapture, with which that released bird
mounted from the doorway of his cage and sped away!
One of the most treasured relics I have is a poem which my father wrote
when I was a little boy. My father was a native of Maine, but for all
that he was a man of sentiment and he had much literary taste, and
ability, too. The poem which he gave me, and which I have always
treasured, will (if I am not grievously in error) touch a responsive
chord in many a human heart, for all humanity looks back with
tenderness to the time of youth.
THE MORNING BIRD
A bird sat in the maple tree
And this was the song he sang to me:
"O little boy, awake, arise!
The sun is high in the morning skies;
The brook's a-play in the pasture lot
And wondereth that the little boy
It loveth dearly cometh not
To share its turbulence and joy;
The grass hath kisses cool and sweet
For truant little brown bar
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