And here is a bed of moss beside a dashing rivulet, inviting us to rest and be thankful. Hark! There is a white-throated sparrow, on a little tree across the river, whistling his afternoon song "In linked sweetness long drawn out."Down in Maine they call him the Peabody-bird, because his notes sound to them like Old man--Peabody, peabody, peabody. In New Brunswick the Scotch settlers say that he sings Lost--lost--Kennedy, kennedy, kennedy. But here in his northern home I think we can understand him better. He is singing again and again, with a cadence that never wearies, "Sweet--sweet--Canada, canada, canada!" The Canadians, when they came across the sea, remembering the nightingale of southern France, baptised this little gray minstrel their rossignol, and the country ballads are full of his praise. Every land has its nightingale, if we only have the heart to hear him. How distinct his voice is--how personal, how confidential, as if he had a message for us!
