I was thinking how
much, how very much, of all our suffering comes from human ignorance
only.
I heard all the songs of nature beside the birds. In the spring I heard
the toads and frogs and turtles making merriment in their little
sitting-rooms in the pools of water in low places. In the summer I
heard the locusts sing and the lazy croak of bullfrog, bearing the
relation of trombone in the orchestra of nature to the other musicians,
whilst the fireflies were dancing in mid-air all around him--he winking
at them with those wondrous projecting eyes. In the autumn the cricket
was my favorite, and he was kind enough at times to come into our
musical parlor to rival Mary and Jennie and Helen. But in the winter it
was only the kindly birds that came to us--sweet chickadee and the
talkative crows. None of us injured the birds. I do not remember ever
seeing a gun on the place. Thus went the seasons--spring, summer,
autumn, winter.
I loved the daily round of life. All were kind to me. I was well
mentally and physically. I was in the bud of youth. I was like the pink
rhodoras in spring, callow of leaf or fruit but brightly covered with
promising blossoms. There remained one thing for me--to know I was
happy.
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