Our young friend here," he continued, turning to me, "has the appearance of a listener; but I suspect he is busy with his own reveries, or enjoying the fresh sights and sounds of this fine morning.

I doubt whether our discourse has edified him." "Pardon me," said I; "I was, indeed, listening to another and older oracle." "Well, tell us what you hear," said the Doctor.
"A faint, low murmur, rising and falling on the wind.

Now it comes rolling in upon me, wave after wave of sweet, solemn music.

There was a grand organ swell; and now it dies away as into the infinite distance; but I still hear it,--whether with ear or spirit I know not,--the very ghost of sound." "Ah, yes," said the Doctor; "I understand it is the voice of the pines yonder,--a sort of morning song of praise to the Giver of life and Maker of beauty.

My ear is dull now, and I cannot hear it; but I know it is sounding on as it did when I first climbed up here in the bright June mornings of boyhood, and it will sound on just the same when the deafness of the grave shall settle upon my failing senses.