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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!
There is a breath of fragrance on the cool shady air beside our
little stream, that seems familiar. It is the first week of
September. Can it be that the twin-flower of June, the delicate
Linnaea borealis, is blooming again? Yes, here is the threadlike
stem lifting its two frail pink bells above the bed of shining
leaves. How dear an early flower seems when it comes back again
and unfolds its beauty in a St. Martin's summer! How delicate and
suggestive is the faint, magical odour! It is like a renewal of
the dreams of youth.
"And need we ever grow old?" asked my lady Greygown, as she sat
that evening with the twin-flower on her breast, watching the stars
come out along the edge of the cliffs, and tremble on the hurrying
tide of the river. "Must we grow old as well as gray? Is the time
coming when all life will be commonplace and practical, and
governed by a dull 'of course'? Shall we not always find
adventures and romances, and a few blossoms returning, even when
the season grows late?"
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