incredible that it oppresses the mind like a haunting illusion. Is it
the truth that men are fretting, raving, killing each other, for matters
so trivial that I, even I, so far from saint or philosopher, must needs
fall into amazement when I consider them? I could imagine a man who, by
living alone and at peace, came to regard the everyday world as not
really existent, but a creation of his own fancy in unsound moments. What
lunatic ever dreamt of things less consonant with the calm reason than
those which are thought and done every minute in every community of men
called sane? But I put aside this reflection as soon as may be; it
perturbs me fruitlessly. Then I listen to the sounds about my cottage,
always soft, soothing, such as lead the mind to gentle thoughts.
Sometimes I can hear nothing; not the rustle of a leaf, not the buzz of a
fly, and then I think that utter silence is best of all.

This morning I was awakened by a continuous sound which presently shaped
itself to my ear as a multitudinous shrilling of bird voices. I knew
what it meant. For the last few days I have seen the swallows gathering,
now they were ranged upon my roof, perhaps in the last council before
their setting forth upon the great journey. I know better than to talk
about animal instinct, and to wonder in a pitying way at its resemblance
to reason. I know that these birds show to us a life far more
reasonable, and infinitely more beautiful, than that of the masses of
mankind. They talk with each other, and in their talk is neither malice
nor folly. Could one but interpret the converse in which they make their
plans for the long and perilous flight--and then compare it with that of
numberless respectable persons who even now are projecting their winter
in the South!