Nature is in herself a perpetual invitation: the birds call, the trees beckon and the winds whisper to us. After the unfeeling pavements, the yielding springy turf of the fields has a sympathy with the feet and invites us to walk. It is good to hear again the fine long-drawn note of the meadow-lark-voice of the early year, -the first bluebird's warble, the field-sparrow's trill, the untamed melody of the kinglet-a magic flute in the wilderness-and...
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