Indeed no
storm can be more violent than those of the waterfalls in the midst of
which he delights to dwell. However dark and boisterous the weather,
snowing, blowing, or cloudy, all the same he sings, and with never a
note of sadness. No need of spring sunshine to thaw _his_ song, for
it never freezes. Never shall you hear anything wintry from _his_
warm breast; no pinched cheeping, no wavering notes between sorrow and
joy; his mellow, fluty voice is ever tuned to downright gladness, as
free from dejection as cock-crowing.
It is pitiful to see wee frost-pinched sparrows on cold mornings in the
mountain groves shaking the snow from their feathers, and hopping about
as if anxious to be cheery, then hastening back to their hidings out of
the wind, puffing out their breast-feathers over their toes, and
subsiding among the leaves, cold and breakfastless, while the snow
continues to fall, and there is no sign of clearing. But the Ouzel never
calls forth a single touch of pity; not because he is strong to endure,
but rather because he seems to live a charmed life beyond the reach of
every influence that makes endurance necessary.
One wild winter morning, when Yosemite Valley was swept its length from
west to east by a cordial snow-storm, I sallied forth to see what I
might learn and enjoy.
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