As the light increases waves of delicate color appear in the sky to
the northeast, and by and by the sun's face appears over the tops of
the trees. He shoots arrows of pale flame through the woods. In the
clearing the trunks of the trees are like cathedral pillars, and the
sunlight comes down in slanting rays as if the openings among the
tree-tops were windows and the blue haze beneath the incense of the
morning mass. Black-capped precentor of the avian choir, the chickadee
sounds two sweet tones, clear and musical, like keynotes blown from a
silver pipe. The wood thrush sounds a few organ tones, resonant and
thrilling. It is almost his last summer service; soon, like the
thrashers, he will be drooping and silent. The chewink, the indigo
bird, the glad goldfinches, the plaintive pewees are the sopranos; the
blue-bird, the quail, with her long, sweet call, and the grosbeak,
with his mellow tones, are the altos; the nuthatch and the tanager
take up the tenor, while the red-headed woodpeckers, the crows and the
cuckoos bear down heavy on the bass. Growing with the light, the fugue
swells into crescendo. Lakes of sunshine and capes of shadow down the
old road are more sharply defined. Bushes of tall, white melilot,
clustered with myriads of tiny flowers, exhale a sweet fragrance into
the morning air.
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