“Come now, my children,” said Dame Nature once, in the morning of the
world, “let me hear your voices, that I may judge which of all is the
most musical.”
Up from the dewy grass sprang a meadow-lark with a burst of melody that
thrilled the listening air; then loud, and sweet, and clear, was heard
the warbling of a nightingale; the mountain brook, swinging its censer
among the rocks, began to chant—in lower, deeper tones; meanwhile, that
wanderer, the wind, passing, with nimble fingers touched the keys of the
forest-organ, and the towering pines and sturdy oaks and yews quivered
and throbbed as he played accompaniment; then caroled in chorus countless
millions of birds—even the tiny insects took to humming as they rioted
among the golden rays, and the wild beasts and every living creature,
encouraged, lifted their voices in trial; from the cloud-mass, above the
far-off horizon, came the thunder’s rumble; the river, leaping the cliff,
roared in rivalry; quick followed the heavy voices of the great billows
as they came surging upon the beach. Oh, grand and mighty music did they
all make together in that glad morning of the world. The sunlit heavens
leaned over, breathless, to hear it, the purple valleys, lifting, fondled
it as they climbed, the speechless hills caught it up, and in envy hurled
it back again, note by note, till the whole earth was wild with sound and
deafening reverberation, and “Cease, cease, my children!” Dame Nature
cried aloud, “lest I render you voiceless, every one, and there be no
more music forever.”
But failing to make herself heard, she unrolled the great cloud that
lay coiled above the horizon, and drew it like a veil across the sky.
Immediately there was silence—silence unbroken for a moment’s space, when
“Ha, ha, ha!” giggled the mountain brook, unable to restrain its mirth;
“Ha, ha, ha!” repeated a bright-winged forest bird; “Ha, ha, ha!” flew
swiftly back from the hills.
“Hush, irreverent ones!” spake Dame Nature in anger; “listen, while I
pass sentence upon you! Thou, mountain brook, who hast dared to break
silence by thine ill-timed laughter, laugh on, forever and forever: thy
song is taken from thee, and thou shalt have thy fill of merriment! From
thee, too, bird of the brilliant plumage, is taken the power of song:
henceforth thou shalt find voice only to mimic the folly of others. And
you, ye hills, will I fetter and bind, that ye no more astonish the world
with your envious wrath.
“As for you, my obedient children, ye are all musical, each in his own
way; and now will I assign to you places in my choir. Thou, wandering
wind, shalt be my organist; and ye larks and nightingales, who are my
pride and joy, and all ye merry little birds, the melody is yours; and ye
surging billows, and muttering clouds, and roaring cataracts, to you the
base belongs.
“Sing on, now, my children; sing on, and practice well, that ye may know
your parts when, by and by, I call upon you for a grand and glorious
anthem that shall fill the world with wonder.”
And alway since then they have been diligently practicing, till now,
when Dame Nature calls for _Te Deum_ at the day-dawn, or for a vesper
hymn at eventide, marvelous is the melody of gleesome and gay-hearted
little birds; marvelous is the skill of the musician wind, as he sweeps
the forest-organ’s answering keys; marvelous are the voices of cloud and
cataract, and marvelous the voices of the sea.
But there are birds of rainbow-tinted plumage, wonderful to behold, whose
harsh, discordant tones serve only to mock and mimic; the mountain brook
wearies ofttimes of laughter, querulous, complains to the rocks, grieving
for its lost song; and faint and rare are the echoes heard among the
speechless hills.