NORTH.
Not one. Hundreds of smokes are stealing up from hidden or apparent cottages—for the region is not unpopulous, and not a garden without its hives—and early risers though we be, the matutinæ apes are still before us, and so are the birds.
BULLER.
They, too, are making a noise. Who says a shilfa cannot sing? Of the fifty now "pouring his throat," as the poet well says, I defy you to tell which sings best. That splendid fellow on the birch-tree top—or yonder gorgeous tyke on the yellow oak—or——
NORTH.
"In shadiest covert hid" the leader of the chorus that thrills the many-nested underwood with connubial bliss.
SEWARD.
Not till this moment heard I the waterfall.
BULLER.
You did, though, all along—a felt accompaniment.