Our yellow-tinted sparrow has another name, the “Grasshopper Sparrow,” from its insect-like tremolo and chirp. Its song is a chord or two and a long trill on the insect letter, z. It is sung, to the eye, with a hearty abandon of joy, the head thrown back and mouth open, in a fine pose of ecstasy; yet, unless all around is still, and you listen with attention, not a sound will you hear, so small and fine are the vibrating tones. It is said, in a story of the Highlands, that on certain nights, if a man will but lay a couchant ear close to the breast of the earth, he may hear the fine, fine piping of the fairy tunes played in the underworld. Our bird’s song is one of these faint, sweet voices of the earth, like the music that breathes from every clod or leaf when the old world lies dreaming and dozing in a bit of holiday after work is done on a warm, sunny afternoon in autumn, a musical, tremulous, sweet piping everywhere.
Yet not one of these small creatures is forgotten before its Father. When the frost is in the air, and winter is near, the Divine impulse stirs in its breast, and its little wings will bear it far, far away in the long, mysterious journey over sea to the warm islands of the Atlantic. There it will sing for joy with its fellows in the sun, but when April returns, look well. Is there not a stir in the short grass? And listen. The faint, dream-like thrill throbs again in the throat of the sparrow, and our ground-dweller has returned. It is a parable of God’s care for His little ones.
When in the hollow of His hand All calm doth lie the deep, Alone and out of sight of land, Upon the wave I sleep; Above, the sun resplendent shines; Beneath, old ocean heaves; I feel alike the smile of heaven And some great heart that grieves.
I drift afar by sun and star; I care not where I be So long as throbs the giant flood Of ocean under me. The ancient sea my brother is And well I know his moods; For everywhere with him I fare Throughout his solitudes.
I lay my heart unto his heart, I soothe him with my wing; I kiss the tide as I were bride, And to him low I sing. He speaks to me of mystery, Of days when he was young, Of sorrows old, of tales untold By any other tongue.