were in movement; Mr. Bryant saw his bird in the evening, and it was alone, still the lines would recur to one:
| “ | Whither, 'midst falling dew, |
| While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, | |
| Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue | |
| Thy solitary way.” |
A flock of migratory birds can never fail, indeed, to be a beautiful and striking sight. The proud ships crossing the vast ocean, with man at the helm, are not a more impressive spectacle than these lesser creatures travelling through
| “ | The desert and illimitable air— |
| Lone, wandering, but not lost.” |
Doubtless the flocks which now pass over the valley are as nothing compared with the throngs that went and came when the red man hunted here; still, we never fail to see them spring and fall. Many are the different varieties which come and go, and various are their habits of travelling. Some fly by day, others at night; some are silent, others utter loud and peculiar cries; these move in a regular phalanx, those in a careless crowd; some have leaders, others need none; these move rapidly, and directly toward their goal, others linger weeks on the way. Some travel in flocks, others in pairs; with these the males fly first, with those all move together; some follow the coast, others take an inland course.
And how much pleasure the birds give and receive by their migrations! This singular instinct implanted in the breast of the fowls of the air, is indeed a very touching instance of the tenderness of Providence, who not only bestows what is necessary on
