The yellow-bird flits like a winged jonquil here and there; like knots of violets the blue-birds sport in clusters upon the grass; while hurrying from the pasture to the grove, the red robin seems an incendiary putting torch to the trees.

Meanwhile the air is vocal with their hymns, and your own soul joys in the general joy.

Like a stranger in an orchestra, you cannot help singing yourself when all around you raise such hosannas.
But in autumn, those gay northerners, the birds, return to their southern plantations.

The mountains are left bleak and sere.

Solitude settles down upon them in drizzling mists.