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Rowan sank into the old couch with a happy sigh. This had always been her favorite room, with its cold stone wall and large, draped windows. It was by far the best spot around for just getting away to read or write in the quiet. Everyone else stayed upstairs, preferring the view from the deck or the openness of the rooms.

Inhaling the faint scent of lakewater mingled with the lightly musty scent of the old couch, Rowan leaned over to look through the box of books on the floor. They had come from the used book store where she worked. Her boss had been planning to get rid of them, but Rowan had offered to take them instead.

The first book she pulled out was a cheap romance novel. Not her genre at all. Next came an old Reader�s Digest Condensed book and one on making kites. That might be worth looking at later, but right now, her eye had been caught by the volume underneath. Lying in the bottom of the box was an old leatherbound book.

She didn�t see a title, but the cover was worn from frequent use, and the edges of the pages were yellowed. The paper crackled as she opened the book up, but none of the pages had come loose.

The first page had very little on it, just the words �To Rowan, with love� handwritten in faded ink. On the inside of the front cover, she saw the name �Rowan Elizabeth� what a strange coincidence, that her name should be written in this book.

Becoming ever more intrigued, Rowan flipped to the next page. This one held what appeared to be a poem, though Rowan couldn�t read it. It was written in a language she didn�t know. Latin, perhaps. She could pick out a few words, but that was about all. Glancing back at the cover, she confirmed that it was written in the same small, neat handwriting as Rowan�s name.

That handwriting also covered the next page, this time in English.

�August 1st, 1890.

Amazing how one�s head can be so full of ideas all the time that it is absolutely dizzying until one prepares to write any of these ideas down. Then it is as if there had never been a single thought to occupy one�s mind more important than which pair of stockings should be worn when visiting relatives. I�ve often found, though, that if one writes long enough, even about something as silly as stockings, eventually something meaningful is bound to find its way onto the page. Thus, I begin my musings, not with the meaning of life, but with the simpler and more enjoyable topic of birds.

This morning, I woke to the sound of a bird singing just outside my window. I could not see the feathered minstrel through the small opening, but could hear him clearly enough. He was singing his little heart out, putting his whole being into that simple song. None but me was listening, I think, for I heard no answering call, but the music was beautiful. Humans can�t make music like that, not with any instrument in the world. Nor have I ever heard a human that felt as passionately as I imagined that bird did. I lay there and listened, wishing I knew what his song was about, until eventually my winged friend stopped singing and flew away. I was greatly saddened by this, but knew that I too had to be getting on with the business of the day.

Rising and dressing, I made my way to the kitchen, where my cousin was already sitting, looking surly, as usual. He is 16 and only two years older than me, but to hear him tell it, that two years makes all the difference in the world. At any rate, I told him about my musical visitor and got very little response, as he hadn�t had his morning coffee. I suppose that comes with being an adult as well, because neither my parents nor his seem to be able to think coherently for at least half an hour and one cup of bitter coffee.

The rest of the day progressed in a similar fashion, with nothing spectacular or even terribly interesting happening, so now I am preparing to go to bed, hoping that my singing friend will return in the morning with more stories to tell.�

Rowan looked up from the book, thinking about what she�d just read. Glancing casually out the window, she listened, but could only hear frogs and the fan from the next room. Not surprising, since it was completely dark out. Returning her gaze to the book, she flipped to the next page, curious.

�August 13th, 1890.

The bird has returned every morning to wake me with a song, and each time it is subtly different and more meaningful, or so it seems to me. I wonder often what it is he sings of, if it is love, or beauty, or freedom, or perhaps a combination of them all. It must be something wonderful, anyway. There is one thing I do know, however, and that is that I lie there every morning, wishing I could remain all day, just listening.

Our farm seems to be doing very well. Father has hired on two new hands, Peter and Matthew. Peter is nice, but very quiet. He seems shy, almost afraid, like a deer about to disappear into the woods, leaving you nothing but a fading memory. He also seems very curious, and smart. It only took him a moment to learn how to care for the horses the way father wants.

Matthew, on the other hand, doesn�t seem afraid of anything. I think he is though. He acts too tough, like if he lets anything in, it might hurt him. I wonder if he got hurt before and that�s why he acts like he does.�