HENRY THOREAU
“The beautiful hanging gardens that rocked in the morning wind
And sheltered a dream of Faerie and a life so timid and kind.
The shady choir of the bluebird and the racecourse of squirrels gay.”
He stopped once on the street and made me hear, clear, but far above, the red-eyed vireo's note and, rarely coming, that of his little white-eyed cousin. I had not known — I venture to say few persons know — that the little olive-brown bird whom we associate with her delicate nest hanging between two twigs in the woods, is one of the commonest singers on our main street in July, even as Thoreau wrote: —
“Upon the lofty elm-tree sprays.
The Vireo rings the changes meet.
During these trivial summer days.
Striving to lift our thoughts above the street.”
Many a boy and girl owed to him the opening of the gate of this almost fairy knowledge, and thereafter pleasant
90
