LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
gaunt, hungry-looking house on that treeless waste with that tragic man of genius,—of terrible earnestness and blackest melancholy,—is it any wonder that she lost her cheerfulness and vivacity?
Though we have here the solitude, thank goodness we have not the gray desolation of Craigenputtoch nor the gloom of a man of genius. The only sounds that come to me in this peaceful Eden are those of softly rippling invisible waters, the low murmur of insects, the occasional dropping of the tiny brown cones of the alders, and a faint rustle of falling leaves. Nothing more. Even the clamorous cricket is silent. Our birds have long been mute, and now “slide o’er the lustrous woodland,” voiceless phantoms of the minstrels we once knew.
But we have a visitor who has brought his voice with him. He has but lately come to us, from out of the reeds and rushes of the lowlands,—a meadow-lark. Every morning comes floating up to us from this little glen a melody so divine that the angels above must fold their wings to listen. From childhood I have loved this bird above all others. His notes are inexpressibly mellow and sweet,—tender, too, with a perplexing hint of sadness. Is it the pathos of reminiscence, of prophecy, or of passionate pleading? I try hard to understand, but cannot. I only know there is in it a cadence—
“That touches me with mystic gleams,
Like glimpses of forgotten dreams—
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