All about my garden to-day the birds are loud. To say that the air is
filled with their song gives no idea of the ceaseless piping, whistling,
trilling, which at moments rings to heaven in a triumphant unison, a wild
accord. Now and then I notice one of the smaller songsters who seems to
strain his throat in a madly joyous endeavour to out-carol all the rest.
It is a chorus of praise such as none other of earth's children have the
voice or the heart to utter. As I listen, I am carried away by its
glorious rapture; my being melts in the tenderness of an impassioned joy;
my eyes are dim with I know not what profound humility.