(Is there not a hint in it for a musical
composition, of which it should be the back-ground? some bumble-bee
symphony?) How it all nourishes, lulls me, in the way most needed; the
open air, the rye-fields, the apple orchards. The last two days have
been faultless in sun, breeze, temperature and everything; never two
more perfect days, and I have enjoy'd them wonderfully. My health is
somewhat better, and my spirit at peace. (Yet the anniversary of the
saddest loss and sorrow of my life is close at hand.)
Another jotting, another perfect day: forenoon, from 7 to 9, two
hours envelop'd in sound of bumble-bees and bird-music. Down in
the apple-trees and in a neighboring cedar were three or four
russet-back'd thrushes, each singing his best, and roulading in ways I
never heard surpass'd. Two hours I abandon myself to hearing them,
and indolently absorbing the scene. Almost every bird I notice has a
special time in the year--sometimes limited to a few days--when
it sings its best; and now is the period of these russet-backs.
Meanwhile, up and down the lane, the darting, droning, musical
bumble-bees. A great swarm again for my entourage as I return home,
moving along with me as before.
As I write this, two or three weeks later, I am sitting near the brook
under a tulip tree, 70 feet high, thick with the fresh verdure of its
young maturity--a beautiful object--every branch, every leaf perfect.
From top to bottom, seeking the sweet juice in the blossoms, it swarms
with myriads of these wild bees, whose loud and steady humming makes
an undertone to the whole, and to my mood and the hour.
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