LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
Who wouldn’t enjoy weeding in such a glorified nook, hearing the music of rustling leaves, falling waters, and a chorus of bird voices, a “choir invisible” hidden away in those green temples!
In the early morning the birds seem almost deliriously happy, singing with a “fine, careless rapture,” as if from mere joy of living. In the evening their notes, though very sweet, are more subdued and plaintive, just hinting of unrest. Is it from weariness or is it anxiety? Whatever the cause, it is too elusive to be interpreted by my dull senses.
I am ashamed that I know so little about birds, not even the names of half that we see here; and yet I love them beyond rubies and pearls.
As I crouched there, working, and thinking of these things, I suddenly heard a familiar bird-voice, and looking up I saw perched upon a curving willow wand a little wood-wren that comes many times each day to the porch for crumbs. If I am not in sight, he lights on the railing and calls persistently until I appear. He has become quite fearless, hopping so near that I could reach him with my hand. A most lovable bird is little “Hop o’ My Thumb,” as Tom calls him. He introduced himself to us early last Winter, and now we are intimate friends.
After a time I found the sun was shining down hot, and I was glad when the last of the onions were freed from their tormentors. They stood in long straight
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