Ultima Thule. Leaving orders that I should not be disturbed, I went to
my room, and Nature took the tired man, as if he were a weary child,
into her arms.

At last I imagined that I was at the Academy of Music, and that the
orchestra were tuning their instruments for the overture. A louder
strain than usual caused me to start up, and I saw through the open
window a robin on a maple bough, with its tuneful throat swelled to
the utmost. This was the leader of my orchestra, and the whole country
was alive with musicians, each one giving out his own notes without
any regard for the others, but apparently the score had been written
for them all, since the innumerable strains made one divine harmony.
From the full-orbed song from the maple by my window, down to the
faintest chirp and twitter, there was no discord; while from the
fields beyond the village the whistle of the meadow-larks was so
mellowed and softened by distance as to incline one to wonder whether
their notes were real or mere ideals of sound.

For a long time I was serenely content to listen to the myriad-voiced
chords without thinking of the past or future. At last I found myself
idly querying whether Nature did not so blend all out-of-door sounds
as to make them agreeable, when suddenly a catbird broke the spell of
harmony by its flat, discordant note. Instead of my wonted irritation
at anything that jarred upon my nerves, I laughed as I sprang up,
saying,

"That cry reminds me that I am in the body and in the same old world.
That bird is near akin to the croaking printer."

But my cynicism was now more assumed than real, and I began to wonder