In a sad hour I have seen, though the window, mounted on a rail back of my house, one of those curious-eyed little sparrows. And he was a better preacher to me than I am to you. It was winter, and there was not guaranteed to it one day’s food, nor any protection, from any source in this world. It was wholly dependent upon its God. And yet it sang, --- sang for its own hearing, and sang for my rebuke, saying to me, “Are ye not much more than I? And God thinks of me, and takes care of me.” How much there is in the voice of nature if we only knew how to interpret it?
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