… in a feeble imitation of its trumpet note. I never forgot the exact timbre of that woodland call; so when at length, long after, I traced it to what is known in books as the “Red-shouldered Hawk”, it was a little triumph and a little disappointment. The books made it all so commonplace. They say it has a loud call like “kee-o”; but they do not say that it has a bugle note that can stir your very soul if you love the wild things, and voices more than any other thing on wings the glory of flight, the blessedness of being alive.
To-day, as I write, is December 2, 1917; and this morning as I walked in my homeland, a sailing, splendid hawk came pouring out the old refrain, “kee-yi-o, kee-yi-o, kee-oh”. Oh, it was glorious! I felt little prickles in the roots of my hair as he went over; and I rejoiced above all things to realize that he sang just as well as, yes maybe a little better than that first one did, that I heard in the winter woods some forty years ago.
The Fingerboard Goldenrod
“Oh, Mother Carey! All-mother! Lover of us little plants as well as the big trees! Listen to us little slender Goldenrods.
“We want to be famous, Mother Carey, but our stems are so Uttle and our gold is so small, that we cannot count in the great golden show of autumn, for that is the glory of our tall cousins. They do not need us, and they do not want us. Won't you give us a Uttle job all our own, our very own, for we long to be doing something?”
Then Mother Carey smiled so softly and sweetly and said: “Little slender Goldenrods, I am going to give you ..text continues