One afternoon about five o’clock, several weeks after we had “passed
Anjer,” a bird as large as a heron came and sat for half an hour on a
yard. We were several hundred miles from any land. The bird was not
idle, for his frequent change of position, the motions of his head
evidently helping his eye-sight, showed that his thoughts were busy
about the next stage in his flight. He will go westward, I said to
myself, keeping up as long as possible with the sun; but still he will
spend the night somewhere on the waves. I watched him till he flew. To
my surprise, instead of going toward the sun he flew eastward. I would
have dissuaded him from such a decision, at least would have inquired
by what train of thought he came to the conclusion that he would fly
toward the night. On reflection it occurred to me that he took the
most direct course toward the morning; by going in that direction he
would meet the sun before we should see him. Perhaps instinct had
taught him this lesson, and therefore he flew into the darkness as the
speediest way to the morning. He “who maketh us wiser than the fowls
of heaven” has given then an instinct before which ours is as nothing.
Experience, the comparison of events, wisdom learned from mistakes,
from sorrow, from loss, is ours, to guide us on our heavenward path.
Improving by such experience we are “wiser than the fowls;” otherwise
their instinct makes our folly more pitiable. As the bird flew from me
toward the east, this train of thought arose: