It was an endless wonder to my
mind, as I dreamed about the platform, following the progress of
the shadows, where the madrona with its leaves, the azalea and
calcanthus with their blossoms, could find moisture to support such
thick, wet, waxy growths, or the bay tree collect the ingredients
of its perfume. But there they all grew together, healthy, happy,
and happy-making, as though rooted in a fathom of black soil.
Nor was it only vegetable life that prospered. We had, indeed, few
birds, and none that had much of a voice or anything worthy to be
called a song. My morning comrade had a thin chirp, unmusical and
monotonous, but friendly and pleasant to hear. He had but one
rival: a fellow with an ostentatious cry of near an octave
descending, not one note of which properly followed another. This
is the only bird I ever knew with a wrong ear; but there was
something enthralling about his performance. You listened and
listened, thinking each time he must surely get it right; but no,
it was always wrong, and always wrong the same way. Yet he seemed
proud of his song, delivered it with execution and a manner of his
own, and was charming to his mate. A very incorrect, incessant
human whistler had thus a chance of knowing how his own music
pleased the world. Two great birds--eagles, we thought--dwelt at
the top of the canyon, among the crags that were printed on the
sky.
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