Much-abused Members of the Choir. 181 they flapped their wings joyously, settled quietly down upon the glassy water, and began to quack with an energy such as they would be likely to display were they chatting familiarly about the land-lubber who had been so ungracious to them, and the fears they had felt that they should never quack together again. But it is at early dawn, when darkness flees away and the light reveals the dim outlines of the forest and mountain, that the bird-concert is heard to the greatest advantage. It seems like a universal congratulation-a shout of praise and thanksgiving for the gift of a new day. The lark bears the gladness of earth upward to the skies; others stay below and chant their morning hymn; and all this is independent of man. The eagle would have screamed on the summits of the cliffs, and the nightingale would have sung its song in the forest, without waiting for a human audience. The robin's mate and its rival songsters only might hear its melody, or for its own enjoyment it might sing, but sing it must. There are many sounds which convey pleasant impressions, though they have no such distinct character and charm as the music of birds. It has been said that the most unmusical sound in the world is the lowing of a cow; and yet it contributes so essentially to the agreeable associations of country life, thatin that gem of English poetry, Gray's "Elegy"—it is made the signal of placid repose : "The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea." And to one lost in the woods (as some one has observed), such a sound, indicating, as it does, the proximity of a human habitation, is so welcome, that the wanderer would almost throw his arms around the neck of the brute in token of his gratitude. There are sounds which become musical by association. The first croak of the frog, as a token of the breaking up of winter, falls agreeably upon the ear. Why so disparaging a term should be applied to the sound he makes, is not known. Querulous and ill-boding people are called "croakers," but the frog is always happy when he croaks; it is his expression of security and enjoyment. The raven has always been regarded by superstitious people as a bird of ill-omen: "The hoarse raven on the blasted bough, By croaking from the left, presaged the coming blow." But the abused frogs are cheerful and buoyant. "Nature is never malancholy," says Coleridge, and, adds a writer in Blackwood, "as Wilkes was no Wilkesite, so frogs are no croakers." "In the month of April," says an enthusiastic lover of nature, "what is finer than a symphonious frog-pond?" The renowned Dr Livingstone, who found in Africa "a splendid esculent frog, nearly as large as a spring chicken," (which it resembles when cooked,) says, "its music was always regarded as the most pleasant sound that met the ear, after crossing portions of the thirsty desert; and I can fully appreciate the sympathy with these animals shewn by Æsop (himself an African), in the fable of the 'Boys and the Frogs."" The cricket is not to be despised as a musician, nor indeed to be reckoned an inferior acquisition to the grand orchestra of nature. He has generally been regarded as a cheerful songster. Milton says: "Far from all resort of mirth, Save the cricket on the hearth." Implying that the little fellow is of a mirthful turn. It is to be observed, however, that the music he makes is not vocal but instrumental; being caused, as naturalists tell us, by the friction of the superior pair of his wings, one against the other;— a contrivance quite as ingenious and effective as our modern cymbals, which are merely two circular metallic plates, the edges of which are brought into contact, to produce not so agreeable a sound. But there are beautiful sounds which are involuntary. They are without effort or seeming purpose. Such are the sounds of gurgling waters, and the mysterious winds. sights alone, but rural sounds. Not rural "What makes things musical? Action, said the little stream. I lay still in my mountain cradle for a long while; occasionally the shadow of an eagle swept across me with a wild cry, but generally from morning till night, I knew no change save in the shadow of my rocky cradle, and the shadows of the clouds; but rocks and clouds are very silent. The singing birds did not venture so high, and the insects had nothing to tempt them near me, because no honeyed flower-bells bent over me there; nothing but little mosses and grey lichens, and. these, though very lovely, are quiet creatures, and make no stir. I longed to have power to wake the hills; but I should have found it more monotonous had I not felt that I was growing, and should flow forth to bless the fields by and by. Every drop that fell into my rocky basin I welcomed, and at last the spring rains came, and all my rocks sent me down little rills on Minstrelsy of the Water and the Wind. 183 every side, and the snows melted into my cup, and at last I rose beyond the rim of my dwelling, and was free! Then I danced down over the hills, and sang as I went, till all the lonely places were glad with my voice; and I tumbled over the stones like bells, and crept among the cresses like fairy flutes, and dashed over the rocks and plunged into the pools with all my endless harmonies. Action makes me musical,' said the stream." Take your straw hat or sun-bonnet, on some sultry day, and walk leisurely down to that little clump of trees at the foot of the lawn; seat yourself on the clean, dry log, or smooth rock, which you will find there, aud "be silent that you may hear." Your ear is greeted with the dull insect hum, and now and then there is a note from the sparrow or the thrush, but you will soon find that the sweetest music of that spot is made by the gentle quiet flow of water. The old logs, the mossy rocks, or a wisp of straw and sticks, obstruct its passage, and occasion a miniature fall; and as some of these obstructions occur in deeper currents, and others at the shallower edge of the brook, it comes to pass that the fall is here an inch or two, and there as many feet. Some mingle with the flowing stream at once, and others taking a little truant frolic, take a circuitous route through the tall grass, and fall into the current below; so that altogether there is an indescribable combination of agreeable sounds inviting to meditation and repose. The constancy of the current gives you the impression of an active onward movement, while the gentleness and softness of its murmurs is irresistibly suggestive of rest. In our Western wilds the weary traveller is often entertained during his wayside-meal, by the music of one of these sporting brooks, in a manner that puts quite in the back-ground the performances of expensive bands, with horns, and hautboys, and clattering drums, at public festivals. So that it may not be always that "Pure gurgling rills a lonely desert trace, And waste their music on a savage race." But there are inexhaustible harmonies in the winds also. A friend said to us the other day, "I never went into the woods even when I was a boy, without an instinctive inclination to pray." One of our popular American poets tells us of "The sacred influence That from the stilly twilight of the place And from the grey old trunks, that, high in heaven, Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound Of the invisible breath that sway'd at once All their green tops, stole over him and bowed * Bryant. And it is not strange that the silence which reigns in these deep shades, and the exclusion from them of all that jostles and annoys us in the busy world, should beget a feeling of awe and vencration. But it is with sound, not silence, that we are concerned. It is said that "the wind is a musician at birth. We extend a silken thread in the crevice of a window, and the wind finds it, and goes up and down the scale upon it, and poor Paganini must go somewhere else for honour, for lo! the wind is performing upon a single string! It tries almost everything there is upon earth to see if there is any music in it. It persuades a tune out of the great bell in the tower, when the sexton is at home and asleep-it makes a mournfnl harp of the giant pines, and it does not disdain to try what sort of a whistle can be made of the humblest chimney in the world. And what a melody it sings when it gives a concert with a full choir of the waves of the sea; and how fondly it haunts old houses, moaning under the eaves, sighing in the halls, opening old doors without fingers, and singing a measure of some old song around the fireless and deserted hearth.” II. We now pass to the beauty and variety of colours which adorn our world, and which are so profusely spread over every province of it. And what first meets the eye is the gorgeous carpet of grass which is spread over the larger part of its solid surface. There are few objects more grateful to the sight than a lawn, in the early spring, upon which the tender grass has attained just height enough to give it a uniform robe of green. The softness, richness, and purity which we behold, as the silver light gleams over it, completely satisfies the ideal of verdure. So when the crop has been removed, and the newly mown meadow presents itself to view, with gladsome birds feasting themselves on seeds and insects which can no longer be concealed, the passer-by is prompted to exclaim, How beautiful! If we would appreciate this matter of colour, we have only to suppose that the grass, and trees, and plants, had been red, blue, or yellow, and that a green thing were as rare in the gardens, fields, and woods, as a red, blue, or yellow thing is now. The eye rests with satisfaction on the field of golden wheat interspersed in the landscape, but if the grass, and corn, and leaves were of the same complexion, it would seek relief from the sight. So, too, were everything green, the sky, the water, and the ripe grain, the effect would be most ungrateful to the sense. In the various departments of the floral world we will find an endless variety of colour, as well as of form. If we select, for example, the family of roses, it would be difficult to name any colour or shade which is not represented. Roses are found, it might almost be said, wherever man is found. There The Beauties of Colour. 185 are supposed to be more than three thousand varieties, or nearly the number of the known languages and dialects of the globe. Except in Australia and South America, they are believed to be universal. And in these countries they have such a profusion of other flowers, and of beautiful birds not found elsewhere, that they can afford to dispense with roses. The delicate tints which distinguish some species of flowers seemed designed to compensate for the absence of fragrance. The family of the Dahlias belong to this class, and also the Japonica and the Fuchsia. No one can fail to notice a singular contrast in the colours of the leaf of many shrubs and trees. The upper surface is of a dark, rich, glossy green, while the lower is nearly a dull white. When moved by the wind these surfaces seem to be mingled, and as they receive the light at different angles, one might look upon them as a multitude of animated beings, vieing with each other in the exhibition of their beauties. Perhaps no feature of animate nature is more striking than the richness and variety of colours which birds display, and as it would seem to be no source of pleasure or occasion of pride to them, we must suppose that it is to gratify us that they are so adorned. In many of the finny race also, as the salmon, trout, and the goldfish, we see a gorgeous array of colours. And it is not the richness and variety of these colours only that charm the eye, but the exquisite blending of them, especially in the flower-world, and the harmony of their colour with the season and climate in which they are seen. In tropical regions, the most brilliant colours prevail in the plumage of birds and in the productions of the forest and flower-garden. This harmony is traced, by some admirer of nature, in eloquent terms: “As winter departs, the modest violet first blooms beneath a veil of leaves, which radiate back upon the radiant little flower all the heat that departs from it. As the snows disappear, blossoms of other flowers open, which display themselves more boldly; but they are blanched, or nearly so. In the passage from the last snows of winter to the first blossoms of spring, the harmony of colour is preserved,-hill-sides and orchards are laden with delicate white, varied rarely by the pink upon the almond-tree. Petals of apple-blossoms floating on the wind mimic the flakes of snow that were so lately seen. As the warm season advances colours deepen, until we come to the dark crimson of autumn flowers, and the brown of autumn leaves. This change is meant not only to be beautiful-it has its use. Why are the first spring flowers all white, or nearly white? Because when the winds are still cold, and when the sun is only moderately kind, a flower would be chilled to death |