PN 6110 .B6 wb Copy 1 THROU1 : YEAR, W : 1RDS MDPOi- LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. "VOV (o YTCr Chap. Copyright No. Suelf;3-_t_W (a UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. Through the Year with Birds and Poets COMPILED BY SARAH WILLIAMS n WITH INTRODUCTION BY BRADFORD TORREY ILLUSTRATED BY WALTER M. HARDY Go forth, under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings "Thanatopsis" — William Cullen Bryant BOSTON LEE AND SHEPARD PUBLISHERS 1900 41393 Library of Com. » res* > Wy CtfHCi KfcU:'ED AUG 31 1900 C«fjfrifht #ntry SECOND COPY. Oelivtrad to ORDER DIVISION, ■sfp a iqnn ■^ Copyright, 1900, by Lee and Shepard yl// rights reserved Through the Year with Birds and Poets 7 "" Vj gsrltfortl ntCo Clmrt&Ul threes BOSTON, U.S.A. PREFACE THIS anthology is the result of a desire on my part to collect poems and parts of poems relating to the bird life of our country. It seemed, therefore, consist- ent with that desire to select the writings of American and Canadian authors only, although by so doing much that is beautiful is necessarily omitted. Twelve divisions have been made, corresponding to the months of the year, and the selections relating to each bird have been placed in the month with which that bird is usually associated. It has seemed best to have all the selections on one sub- ject together, although by so doing an apparent differ- ence of opinion in some poems seems to exist concerning the association of birds with special months. This dif- ference is easily understood when we realize that the poems have been written in many different parts of the country. I wish to express my appreciation of the kind interest shown in this work by many friends, and am especially grateful for the privileges freely given by the Harvard University Library and the Cambridge Public Library in the use of books. IV PREFACE Thanks are also due to the authors who have allowed use of copyrighted material and MS., and to the follow- ing publishers : Houghton, Mifflin & Co. J. B. Lippincott& Co., The Century Company, Small, Maynard & Co., Silver, Burdett & Co., Francis P. Harper, George H. Ellis, R. J. Belford, Harper & Bros., D. Appleton & Co., Charles Scribner's Sons, Macmillan & Co., H. T. Coates & Co., The Bowen-Merrill Company, Educational Publishing Company, Overland Monthly, J. G. Cupples, New York Independent, and all others who have kindly consented to the use of any poems included in this collection. Sarah Williams. CONTENTS PAGE Abbey, Henry L. A Morning Pastoral 45, 173 Winter Days 302 Abbott, Charles Conrad. Crested Tit 299 The Goldfinch 200 Snowbird 290 Swallows over the Water ........ 96 'Yellow-breasted Chat 175 Aldrich, Thomas Bailey. Spring in New England 4 The Winter Robin 287 Anonymous. The Chickadee 298 The Humming-Bird 208 Wild Geese 256 The Wood Thrush 170 AURINGER, OBADIAH CYRUS. The Whippoorwill 197 Bacon, William Thompson. The Robin 25 Barrows, Richard Hoe. The Passing of the Wild Geese 50 Barton, William G. Wilson's Thrush 170 Winter 313 v vi CONTENTS PAGE Bates, Arlo. The Oriole no To the Phoebe Bird 40 Bates, Elizabeth Sears. What Sees the Owl? 283 Billman, Ira. The Humming-Bird 206 The Meadow-Lark 78 Bolles, Frank. The Blue Jay 243 The Crow 45 The Great-crested Flycatcher 123 The Kingfisher 133 The Log-Cock 285 TheOven-Bird 118 The Red-poll Linnet 274 The Ruffed Grouse 99, 239 Bryant, William Cullen. The Death of the Flowers 256 Our Fellow- Worshippers 210 Robert of Lincoln 145 The Song Sparrow 14 To a Waterfowl 87 Burroughs, John. The Golden-crown Sparrow of Alaska . . . . 201 To the Lapland Longspur 193 Burton, Richard. The Bluebird 257 The Cat-bird 164 The Humming-Bird 203 June 144 Carman, Bliss. Migrants 89 CONTENTS Vll PAGE Cary, Alice. Autumn 230 To an Early Swallow 54 Cary, Phcebe. An April Welcome 48 Field Preaching 145 Cawein, Madison. The Rain-Crow 222 Channing, William Ellery. The Flight of the Wild Geese 261 Cheney, John Vance. To a Humming-Bird 204 To a Tip-Up 216 Conrad, T. A. Humming-Bird 211 Pewee 41 Cooke, Rose Terry. Bird Music 176 Captive 306 My Apple-Tree 292 The Snow Filled Nest 310 Cranch, Christopher Pearse. The Bobolinks 155 December 274 Dana, Richard H. The Little Beach-Bird 219 Dunbar, Paul. Preparation 182 Sympathy 306 Edwards, Harry Stillwell. The Vulture 234 Ellet, Elizabeth Fries. To the Whippoorwill 196 viii CONTENTS PAGE Elliot, Daniel Giraud. The Autumn Flight 259 Emerson, Ralph Waldo. Forbearance 228 May-Day 97 Musketaquid 48 Nature (Birds) xxv The Titmouse 295 Flagg, Wilson. To the Mocking-Bird 60 The CVLincon Family 148 Garland, Hamlin. The Blue Jay 242 The Herald Crane 130 The Meadow-lark 79 Return of the Gulls 246 Goodale, Dora Read. The Snowbird 290 Guerrier, George P. To a Bluebird 14 Harte, Bret. To a Sea-Bird 84 Hayne, Paul Hamilton. The First Mocking-Bird in Spring 58 The Hawk 195 The Mocking-Bird (At Night) 71 Hayne, William Hamilton. A Band of Bluebirds (In Autumn) 258 Herford, Oliyer. The Early Owl 282 Higginson, Mrs. Ella. The Way Thou Singest 80 CONTENTS IX PAGE Hildreth, Charles L. Parting of Summer 230 The Wood Thrush 169 Hill, George. The King Bird 215 To a Migrating Sea-Bird 82 Ramblings in Autumn 228 Hill, Thomas. The Baltimore Oriole 113 The Bobolink 153 To the Cat-bird 165 Hymn of the Seasons 144 Sunrise 159 Hoffman, Charles Fenno. The Bob-o-Linkum 150 Holmes, Oliver Wendell. My Aviary 266 Spring 137 Howells, William Dean. The Movers 52 The Song the Oriole Sings . . . . . . . 114 Ives, Ella Gilbert. Robin's Thanksgiving Proclamation 27 Robin's Mate 33 Johnstone, Julian E. The Bobolink 152 The Oriole 109 Lampman, Archibald. April in the Hills 51 The Bird and the Hour 169 The Meadow 51 Snowbirds 291 The Song Sparrow 19 To the Warbling Vireo 178 X CONTENTS PAGE Lanier, Sidney. The Dove 191 The Mocking-Bird 67 To our Mocking-Bird ..*..-.... 62 Owl against Robin 279 Tampa Robins 30 Larcom, Lucy. The Field Sparrow 190 March 4 Nature's Easter Music 105 A Song-Sparrow in March 20 Lathrop, George Parsons. Bluebird's Greeting 9 O Jay ! 239 The Phcebe-Bird 39 The Song-Sparrow 17 Longfellow, Henry Wads worth. Autumn 226 The Birds of Killingworth 183 Evangeline 64, 197 My Cathedral 144 Low, Samuel. To a Lark 82 To the Owl 277 Lowell, James Russell. Agassiz 48 Biglow Papers 5 1 , 1 60 An Indian Summer Reverie 158, 226 The Nest 104, 276 On Planting a Tree at Inveraray 96, 285 Phoebe 37 Under the Willows 112, 158, 160 The Vision of Sir Launfal 145 CONTENTS XI PAGE McLellan, Isaac. Canvas-Back and Red-Heads 264 Coot Shooting 250 The Dusky Duck 235 The Flight of the Canada Geese 260 The Kingfisher 135 The Little Beach Sanderling 218 Nature's Invitation 98 The Notes of the Birds 126 Ruffed-Grouse ; Partridge 1 o 1 Wood-Duck 117 Marble, Charles C. The Belted Piping Plover 178 The Black-capped Chickadee 299 Bob White 137 Marquand, Laura M. The Humming-Bird 207 Matthews, James Newton. October 238 Meek, Alexander Beaufort. The Mocking-Bird 65 Mifflin, Lloyd. The Cardinal-Bird 93 To the Meadow-Lark 80 The Sea-Gull • 247 Piatt, John James. Fallen Leaves 238 Pike, Albert 200 Preston, Margaret J. Birds in Spring 6 Randall, James Ryder. Why Robin's Breast is Red 31 xii CONTENTS PAGE Read, Thomas Buchanan. The Closing Scene 229 The New Pastoral 182 Rexford, Eben Eugene. The Bluebird 13 A July Day 182 Riley, James Whitcomb. A Child World 284 The South Wind and the Sun 210 A Vision of Summer 142 Roberts, Charles G. D. Ave 158 The Flight of the Geese 50 The Hermit Thrush 167 The Night-Hawk 116 Ruprecht, Jennie Terril. Red-Eyed Vireo 179 Savage, Minot J. The Cat-Bird 161 Scott, Duncan Campbell. The End of the Day 168 In the Country Churchyard 168 Sandpipers 218 Sill, Edward Rowland. A Dead Bird in Winter 311 Field Notes 211 The Thrush 173 Stanton, Henry T. Bob White 138 Stedman, Edmund Clarence. The Flight of the Birds 254 Music at Home 163 Stockard, Henry Jerome. To a Mocking-Bird 64 CONTENTS xiti PAGE Street, Alfred Billings, An American Spring 4 The First Violet 2 The Indian's Vigil 248 The Loon 220 A Visit to Mongaup Falls 248 Sweet, Frank H. Flocking of the Birds 252 Tabb, John B. The Bluebird . 8 Thaxter, Celia. The Kittiwakes 269 The Sandpiper 217 The Song-Sparrow 21 Wild Geese 49 Thomas, Edith. Blossom, Blossom on the Green Bough . . . 200 The Cat-Bird 166 A Humming-Bird 209 A Nocturn 222 To a Nuthatch 312 The Vesper Sparrow 175 Winter Comrades 275 Thompson, Ernest Seton. The Myth of the Song Sparrow 21 Thompson, Maurice. An Early Bluebird 7 At Night 285 At the Window 2 The Bluebird 1 1 The Blue Heron 131 To an English Nightingale 68 The Humming-Bird 202 In Captivity 303 XIV CONTENTS PAGE Thompson, Maurice, continued. The Kingfisher 132 Out of the South 91 Spring's Torch-Bearer 107 Timrod, Henry. To a Captive Owl 307 Timrod, William Henry. The Mocking-bird 65 Trowbridge, John T. The Pewee 119 Van Dyke, Henry. The Maryland Yellow-Throat 125 The Song-Sparrow 23 The Veery 172 Wings of a Dove 192 Very, Jones. The Heralds of Early Spring 5 The Humming-Bird 205 Nature Intelligible xxiv The Robin 24 The Winter Bird 272 Wells, Anna Maria. The Sea-Bird * . . . 85 The Tamed Eagle . 309 Whitman, Sarah H. A Still Day in Autumn 238 Whitman, Walt. Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking (Mocking- Bird) 72 Whittier, John Greenleaf. How the Robin Came 34 The Last Walk in Autumn 256 The Robin 32 CONTENTS XV PAGE Wilcox, Carlos. The Age of Benevolence 2 The Age of Benevolence (Spring in New Eng- land) 52 Willis, Nathaniel Parker. The Belfry Pigeon 232 To a City Pigeon 230 Wilson, Alexander. The Baltimore Bird 1 1 1 The Fish Hawk (Osprey) 43 The Fisherman's Hymn 44 The Foresters (Canvas-back Duck) .... 265 Humming-Bird 204 King Bird 211 WORDEN, ALONZO TEALL. Partridges 249 Wright, Mabel Osgood. The Brown Thrasher 174 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE March Title-Page. — (Robins, Bluebirds, Song- Sparrow) 3 Song-Sparrow 17 April Title-Page. — (Mocking-Bird, Swallow-, Meadow Lark) 47 Blue-Backed Swallow 55 May Title-Page. — (Oriole, Kingfishers, Herons) . 95 Oven Bird 118 June Title-Page. — (Bobolink, Thrushes, Catbirds) . 143 Hermit Thrush 167 July Title-Page. — (Whippoorwill, Vireo) 181 Young Sparrow Hawk 195 August Title-Page. — (Humming-Birds, Sandpipers) . 199 King Bird 215 September Title-Page. — (Quail, Partridge) . . . . 227 Turkey Vulture 234 October Title-Page. — (Eagle, Blue Jay) 237 Blue Jay 242 November Title-Page. — (Wild Geese, Wild Duck) . 255 Canada Goose 260 December Title-Page. — (Owls) 273 Barred Owl 277 January Title-Page. — (Chickadees, Snowbirds). . . 289 Chickadee 298 February Title-Page. — (Nuthatches) 301 White-Breasted Nuthatch 312 xvii INTRODUCTION Birds will always be favorite subjects for poets. Color, song, flight, pleasing manners, constancy, self-sacrificing courage — such qualities as these are enough, surely, to make their possessors loved by all who worship truth and beauty. As for our American birds, so recently discovered, so new as yet to the world's knowledge, they will be more worthily sung, no doubt, as acquaintance with them becomes more general. The poet naturally, almost 'necessarily, chooses a theme familiar not only to himself but to his readers. So English poets write of nightingales and skylarks, robins and cuckoos — of those birds, that is to say, concerning which the English people may be supposed to know something. The rest are fair subjects for prose. Having this aspect of the case in mind, I have been surprised to see more than fifty kinds of American birds celebrated in Miss Williams's welcome anthology ; cele- brated, I mean, in such a way that their specific identity is not left in doubt, as is the case, for example, when the "nuthatch," the " swallow," and the " thrush " are men- tioned. Relatively this number is not large, of course, — fifty out of seven hundred and fifty, or one in fifteen, — but even so, it includes many with which the reading community in general has little or no acquaintance. XX INTRODUCTION For it is true, I suppose, that not one American in fifty- knows fifty kinds of American birds by sight, or in any other way. Some of the very likeliest candidates for poetical honors — beauty, song, and habit being regarded — are almost ruled out of the account by the fact that none but students of ornithology ever see or hear them. Where could be found, or desired, a prettier subject for a poem than our black-throated green warbler, living in pine trees and singing like the drowsy voice of the tree itself; and withal, common, widely distributed, and brightly and strikingly dressed? Yet there rises at once the objec- tion that, even in this day of outdoor study, not one American in five hundred has ever heard of the black- throated green warbler. Perhaps it remains for Doctor Van Dyke, who has made famous the Maryland yellow- throat (a much less likely subject, with quite as unversi- fiable a name) to do a similar service for this voice of the white pine. So may it turn out ! The poets' favorites, thus far, seem to have been the bluebird, the robin, the bobolink, the oriole, and (though one would hardly have expected it) the song-sparrow. Among the thrushes the hennit has lorded it over the rest by the accident of a happy name. The wood thrush has fared badly in comparison, though, to say the least, he is very little inferior to the hermit as a musician, and in all the eastern part of the country, at any rate, is heard by several times as many people as ever hear the hermit. Probably half the poets who write of the latter bird have actually been listening to the wood thrush, and take the other name out of ignorance, INTRODUCTION XXI or because it is better suited to poetic use. It would not be very surprising if this were true of Whitman, with his " gray-brown bird," " the thrush, The hermit withdrawn to himself," in his famous threnody, " When Lilacs last in the Door- yard Bloom' d." The ornithological reader of this collection will notice some striking omissions. The early birds, prophets of a new summer, will always have a peculiar place in the hearts of the people ; naturally they will be oftenest written about. No fault is to be found on that score — let the bluebird and the robin be welcomed every year with new verses ; but how does it happen that there is no song to the scarlet tanager, brightest of all American birds, bright enough to set the woods on fire, as Emerson or Thoreau said? Are all our poets so lifted above mere matters of dress as never to have thought the tanager's splendor worthy of a lyric? And the rose- breasted grosbeak, equally handsome, a bird large enough to be seen, and familiar enough to be seen and heard from verandas and house windows, glorious for color and with a voice almost incomparable for sweetness, — why should our Puritanical verse-makers lavish so much praise upon the modest sparrow and leave the gorgeous rosebreast without a line ? The redstart, also, so gay of feather, so quick of motion, such a beauty of beauties, and with so pretty sounding a name, though it means nothing but red tail ; and the Southern water thrush, lover of running brooks XXll INTRODUCTION and singer of glad melodies • and the white-throated sparrow, with his breezy triplets, a voice to be noticed anywhere, and trebly welcome on desolate mountain-tops, — why should these and many more have no place in an anthology of American birds? Let the poets answer if they can. Better still, let them make good the deficiency, so that Miss Williams, in later editions of her book, may find these random introductory reflections of mine even more superfluous than they are at present. And now, because I remark one omission which seems to be the compiler's own, let me conclude by quoting from the man who, writing in prose, has perhaps done more than any one else for the poetic appreciation of American birds, — from Henry D. Thoreau, that is to say, — a stanza about one of the most characteristic of them all : " Upon the lofty elm-tree sprays The vireo rings the changes sweet, During the trivial summer days, Striving to lift our thoughts above the street." It is only a fragment, and in itself may be of no great value, but it is Thoreau' s, and as such should be printed somewhere between the covers of this book. Bradford Torrey. The ballad-singers and the Troubadours, The street musicians of the heavenly city, The birds, who make sweet music for us all In our dark hours, as David did for Saul. The Birds of Killingworth. — Henry W. Longfellow. Summer and Autumn, Winter, Spring, Each season of the varied year, Doth each for us a lesson bring, If we but turn the listening ear. Nature Intelligible. — Jones Very. BIRDS Darlings of children and of bard, Perfect kinds by vice unmarred, All of worth and beauty set Gems in Nature's cabinet : These the fables she esteems Reality most like to dreams. Welcome back, you little nations, Far-travelled in the South plantations ; Bring your music and rhythmic flight, Your colors for our eye's delight: Freely nestle in our roof, Weave your chamber weather-proof; And your enchanting manners bring And your autumnal gathering. Exchange in conclave general Greetings kind to each and all, Conscious each of duty done And unstained as the sun. Nature. — Ralph Waldo Emerson. SPRING A few lonely birds, Of those that in this northern clime remain Throughout the year ; and in the dawn of spring, At pleasant noon, from their unknown retreat Come suddenly to view with lively notes ; Or those that soonest to this clime return From warmer regions, in thick groves were seen, But with their feathers ruffled, and despoiled Of all their glossy lustre, sitting mute, Or only skipping, with a single chirp, In quest of food. The Age of Benevolence. — CARLOS WILCOX. I heard the woodpecker pecking, The bluebird tenderly sing; I turned and looked out of the window, And lo, it was spring ! I forget my old age and grow youthful, Bathing in wind-tides of spring, When I hear the woodpecker pecking, The first bluebird sing. At the Window. — Maurice Thompson. From spot to spot The merry carol of the bluebird sounds, The gay-wing 'd messenger, the spring sends out To tell us of her coming. The First Violet. —Alfred Billings Street. MARCH Hark ! ' Tis the bluebird's venturous strain High on the old fringed elm at the gate ; Sweet-voiced, valiant on the swaying bough, Alert, elate, Dodging the fitful spits of snow, New England's poet-laureate Telling us that Spring has come again ! Spring in New England. —Thomas Bailey Aldrich. March ! ??iarch ! march ! They are coming In troops to the tune of the wind : Red-headed woodpeckers drumming, Gold-crested thrushes behind, Sparrows in brown jackets hopping Past every gateway and door ; Finches with crimson caps stopping Just where they stopped years before. March. — Lucy Larcom. Hark ! that sweet carol! with delight We leave the stifling room ! The little bluebird greets our sight, Spring, glorious Spring has co?ne ! The south wind's kiss is on the air, The melting snow-wreaths everywhere Are leaping off in showers ; And Nature, in her brightening looks, Tells that her flowers, and leaves, and brooks, And birds will soon be ours. An American Spring. — Alfred Billings Street. THROUGH THE YEAR WITH BIRDS AND POETS THE HERALDS OF EARLY SPRING My ear is listening for the sound Of earliest bird upon the tree, Or sparrow flitting o'er the ground, Whose note so welcome is to me. How long the trees have silent stood Through the cold, cheerless winter days ! How lone the fields, the turnpike's road, While hushed so long the sparrow's lays ! They tell of spring's returning reign, With its warm sun and milder sky; That every stream has burst its chain, And the green grass and flowers are nigh. When man with nature, too, awakes, And feels with it the quickening breath, And of the general joy partakes Of earth's return from sleep and death. Come quickly then, with welcome song, Ye heralds of the early spring; Why tarry on your way so long, Nor haste your joyful notes to sing? Jones Very. THROUGH THE YEAR BIRDS IN SPRING Listen ! What a sudden rustle Fills the air ! All the birds are in a bustle Everywhere. Such a ceaseless croon and twitter Overhead ! Such a flash of wings that glitter Wide outspread ! Far away I hear a drumming, — Tap, tap, tap ! Can the woodpecker be coming After sap? What does all this haste and hurry Mean, I pray — All this out-door flush and flurry Seen to-day? This presaging stir and humming, Thrill and call? Mean ? It means that spring is coming ; That is all! Margaret J. Preston. WITH BIRDS AND POETS AN EARLY BLUEBIRD Leap to the highest height of spring, And trill thy sweetest note, Bird of the heavenly plumes and twinkling wing And silver-toned throat ! Sing, while the maple's deepest root Thrills with a pulse of fire That lights its buds. Blow, blow thy tender flute, Thy reed of rich desire ! Breathe in thy syrinx Freedom's breath, Quaver the fresh and true, Dispel this lingering wintry mist of death And charm the world anew ! Thou first sky-dipped spring-bud of song Whose heavenly ecstasy Foretells the May while yet March winds are strong, Fresh faith appears with thee ! How sweet, how magically rich, Through filmy splendor blown, Thy hopeful voice set to the promise-pitch Of melody yet unknown ! O land of mine (where hope can grow And send a deeper root With every spring), hear, heed the free bird blow Hope's charmed flute ! THROUGH THE YEAR Ah ! who will hear, and who will care, And who will heed thy song, As prophecy, as hope, as promise rare, Budding to bloom ere long? From swelling bulbs and sprouting seed, Sweet sap and fragrant dew, And human hearts, grown doubly warm at need, Leaps answer strong and true. We see, we hear (thou liberty-loving thing, That down spring winds doth float), The promise of thine empyrean wing, The hope that floods thy throat ! Maurice Thompson. THE BLUEBIRD When God had made a host of them, One little flower still lacked a stem To hold its blossom blue ; So into it He breathed a song, And suddenly, with petals strong As wings, away it flew. John B. Tabb. WITH BIRDS AND POETS BLUEBIRD'S GREETING Over the mossy walls, Above the slumbering fields, Where yet the ground no fruitage yields, Save as the sunlight falls In dreams of harvest-yellow, What voice remembered calls, — So bubbling fresh, so soft and mellow? A darting, azure-feathered arrow From some lithe sapling's bow-curve, fleet The bluebird, springing light and narrow, Sings in flight, with gurglings sweet : " Out of the South I wing, Blown on the breath of Spring ; The little faltering song That in my beak I bring Some maiden shall catch and sing, Filling it with the longing And the blithe, unfettered thronging Of her spirit's blossoming. " Warbling along In the sunny weather Float my notes, Through the sunny motes, Falling light as a feather ! Flit, flit, o'er the fertile land IO THROUGH THE YEAR 'Mid hovering insects' hums ; Fall into the sower's hand : Then, when his harvest comes, The seed and the song shall have flowered to- gether. " From the Coosa and Altamaha, With the thought of the dim blue Gulf; From the Roanoke and Kanawha; From the musical Southern rivers, O'er the land where the fierce war-wolf Lies slain and buried in flowers ; I come to your chill, sad hours And the woods where the sunlight shivers. I come like an echo : ' Awake ! ' I answer the sky and the lake And the clear, cool color that quivers In all your azure rills. I come to your wan, bleak hills For a greeting that rises dearer, To homely hearts draws me nearer Than the warmth of the rice-fields or wealth of the ranches. " I will charm away your sorrow, For I sing of the dewy morrow : My melody sways like the branches My light feet set astir : I bring to the old, as I hover, The days and the joys that were, WITH BIRDS AND POETS II And hope to the waiting lover ! Then, take my note and sing, Filling it with the longing And the blithe, unfettered thronging Of your spirit's blossoming ! " Not long that music lingers : Like the breath of forgotten singers It flies, — or like the March-cloud's shadow That sweeps with its wing the faded meadow Not long ! And yet thy fleeting, Thy tender, flute-tuned greeting, O bluebird, wakes an answer that remains The purest chord in all the year's refrains. George P. Lathrop. THE BLUEBIRD When ice is thawed and snow is gone, And racy sweetness floods the trees ; When snow-birds from the hedge have flown, And on the hive-porch swarm the bees, — Drifting down the first warm wind That thrills the earliest days of spring, The bluebird seeks our maple groves, And charms them into tasseling. He sits among the delicate sprays, With mists of splendor round him drawn, And through the spring's prophetic veil Sees summer's rich fulfilment dawn : 12 THROUGH THE YEAR He sings, and his is nature's voice, — A gush of melody sincere From that great fount of harmony Which thaws and runs when spring is here. Short is his song, but strangely sweet To ears aweary of the low, Dull tramp of winter's sullen feet, Sandaled in ice and muifed in snow : Short is his song, but through it runs A hint of dithyrambs yet to be, — A sweet suggestiveness that has The influence of prophecy. From childhood I have nursed a faith In bluebird's songs and winds of spring : They tell me after frost and death There comes a time of blossoming ; And after snow and cutting sleet, The cold, stern mood of Nature yields To tender warmth, when bare pink feet Of children press her greening fields. Sing strong and clear, O bluebird dear ! While all the land with splendor fills, While maples gladden in the vales, And plum-trees blossom on the hills : Float down the wind on shining wings, And do thy will by grove and stream, While through my life spring's freshness runs Like music through a poet's dream. Maurice Thompson. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 1 3 THE BLUEBIRD Listen a moment, I pray you ; what was that sound I heard ? Wind in the budding branches, the ripple of brooks, or a bird ? Hear it again, above us ! and see ! a nutter of wings ! The bluebird knows it is April, and soars toward the sun and sings. Never the song of the robin could make my heart so glad. When I hear the bluebird singing in spring, I forget to be sad. Hear it \ A ripple of music ! Sunshine changed into song ! It sets me thinking of summer when the days and their dreams are long. Winged lute that we call a bluebird, you blend in a silver strain The sound of the laughing waters, the patter of spring's sweet rain, The voice of the winds, the sunshine, and fragrance of blossoming things. Ah ! You are an April poem, that God has dowered with wings ! Eben Eugene Rexford. 14 THROUGH THE YEAR TO A BLUEBIRD O thou that wear' st the livery of the sky — Heaven's sovereign stamp upon thee without thrift — Would that I might like praise with thine uplift ! Pour forth as seemest thou, to One on high, A breath as pure ! but, ah, too weak am I ! Plume as I may upon a rarer gift, Watching the weird cloud-phantoms chasing drift, And on the grass in shadow- waves flow by ; Or fed with fancies by the rustling firs, The varied joy of which the mind partakes, And still the greater boon whence faith awakes ; Yea, though I should attempt my very most, 'Twould be of song alone but as a ghost, Compared with thine which now my heart so stirs. George P. Guerrier. THE SONG SPARROW Bird of the door-side, warbling clear In the sprouting or fading year, Well art thou named from thy own sweet lay Piped from paling or naked spray As the smile of the sun breaks through Chill gray clouds that curtain the blue. Even when February bleak Smites with his sleet the traveller's cheek, While the air has no touch of spring, Bird of promise ! we hear thee sing WITH BIRDS AND POETS 1 5 Long ere the first blossom wakes. Long ere the earliest leaf-bud breaks. April passes, and May steals by ; June leads in the sultry July \ Sweet are the wood-notes, loud and sweet, Poured from the robin's and hang-bird's seat ; Thou, as the green months glide away, Singest with them as gayly as they. August comes, and the melon and maize Bask and swell in a fiery blaze ; Swallows gather, and, southward bound, Wheel, like a whirl-blast, round and round ; Thrush and robin their songs forget ; Thou art cheerfully warbling yet. Later still, when the sumach spray Reddens to crimson, day by day ; When in the orchard, one by one, Apples drop in the ripening sun, They who pile them beneath the trees Hear thy lay in the autumn breeze. Comes November, sullen and grim, Spangling with frost the rivulet's brim, Harsh, hoarse winds from the woodlands tear Each brown leaf that is clinging there. Still thou smgest, amid the blast, " Soon is the dreariest season past." 1 6 THROUGH THE YEAR Only when Christmas snow-storms make Smooth white levels of river and lake, Sifting the light flakes all day long, Only then do we miss thy song ; Sure to hear it again when soon Climbs the sun to a higher noon. Now, when tidings that make men pale — Tidings of slaughter — load the gale ; While from the distant camp there come Boom of cannon and roll of drum, Still thou singest, beside my door, " Soon is the stormiest season o'er." Ever thus sing cheerfully on, Bird of Hope ! as in ages gone ; Sing of spring-time and summer-shades, Autumn's pomp when the summer fades, Storms that fly from the conquering sun, Peace by enduring valor won. William Cullen Bryant. By permission of D. Appleton & Co. Song Sparrow WITH BIRDS AND POETS 1 7 THE SONG-SPARROW Glimmers gray the leafless thicket Close beside my garden gate, Where so light, from post to picket Hops the sparrow, blithe, sedate ; Who, with meekly folded wing, Comes to sun himself and sing. It was there, perhaps, last year, That his little house he built ; For he seems to perk and peer, And to twitter, too, and tilt The bare branches in between, With a fond, familiar mien. Once, I know, there was a nest, Held there by a sideward thrust Of those twigs that touch his breast ; Though 'tis gone now. Some rude gust Caught it, over-full of snow, — Bent the bush, — and stole it so. Thus our highest holds are lost, In the ruthless winter's wind, When, with swift-dismantling frost, The green woods we dwelt in, thinn'd Of their leafage, grow too cold For frail hopes of summer's mold. 1 8 THROUGH THE YEAR But if we, with spring days mellow, Wake to woeful wrecks of change, And the sparrow's ritornello Scaling still its old sweet range ; Can we do a better thing Than, with him, still build and sing? Oh, my sparrow, thou dost breed Thought in me beyond all telling; Shootest through me sunlight, seed, And the fruitful blessing, with that welling Ripple of ecstatic rest Gurgling ever from^thy breast ! And thy breezy carol spurs Vital motion in my blood, Such as in the sap-wood stirs, Swells and shapes the pointed bud Of the lilac, and besets The hollow thick with violets. Yet I know not any charm That can make the fleeting time Of thy sylvan, faint alarm Suit itself to human rhyme ; And my yearning, rhythmic word Does thee grievous wrong, blithe bird. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 1 9 So, however thou hast wrought This wild joy on heart and brain, It is better left untaught. Take thou up the song again : There is nothing sad afloat On the tide that swells thy throat ! George Parsons Lathrop. From M Dreams and Days," copyright, 1892, by Charles Scribner's Sons. THE SONG SPARROW Fair little scout, that when the iron year Changes, and the first fleecy clouds deploy, Comjest with such a sudden burst of joy, Lifting on winter's doomed and broken rear That song of silvery triumph blithe and clear ; Not yet quite conscious of the happy glow, We hungered for some surer touch, and lo ! One morning we awake and thou art here. And thousands of frail- stemmed hepaticas, With their crisp leaves and pure and perfect hues, Light sleepers, ready for the golden news, Spring at thy note beside the forest ways — Next to thy song, the first to deck the hour — The classic lyrist and the classic flower. Archibald Lampman. 20 THROUGH THE YEAR A SONG-SPARROW IN MARCH How much do the birds know afloat in the air Of our changeable, strange human life and its care ? Who can tell what they utter, With carol and flutter, Of the joy of our hearts, or the pain hidden there ? In the March morning twilight I turned from a bed Where a soul had just risen from a form lying dead : The dim world was ringing With a song- sparrow's singing That went up and pierced the gray dawn overhead. It rose like an ecstasy loosed from the earth ; Like a rapture repeating the song of its birth ; In that clear burst of gladness Night shook off her sadness, And death itself echoed the heavenly mirth. While her sorrowful burden the sufferer laid by, The little bird passed, and caught up to the sky, And sang to gray meadow And mist-wreath and shadow The triumph a mortal had found it to die. Oh, the birds cannot tell what it is that they sing ! But to me must the song-sparrow's melody bring, Whenever I hear it, The joy of a spirit Released into life on that dim dawn of spring. Lucy Larcom. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 21 THE MYTH OF THE SONG SPARROW His mother was the Brook, his sisters were the Reeds, And they every one applauded when he sang about his deeds. His vest was white, his mantle brown, as clear as they could be, And his songs were fairly bubbling o'er with melody and glee. But an envious Neighbor splashed with mud our Brownie's coat and vest, And then a final handful threw that stuck upon his breast. The Brook-bird's mother did her best to wash the stains away, But there they stuck, and, as it seems, are very like to stay. And so he wears the splashes and the mud blotch, as you see, But his songs are bubbling over still with melody and glee. Bird-Lore. — Ernest Seton Thompson. THE SONG-SPARROW In this sweet, tranquil afternoon of spring, While the low sun declines in the clear west, I sit and hear the blithe song-sparrow sing His strain of rapture not to be suppressed ; Pondering life's problem strange, while death draws near, — I listen to his dauntless song of cheer. 22 THROUGH THE YEAR His shadow flits across the quiet stone : Like that brief transit is my space of days ; For, like a flower's faint perfume, youth is flown Already, and there rests on all life's ways A dimness ; closer my beloved I clasp, For all dear things seem slipping from my grasp. Death touches all ; the light of loving eyes Goes out in darkness, comfort is withdrawn; Lonely, and lonelier still the pathway lies, Going toward the fading sunset from the dawn : Yet hark ! while those fine notes the silence break, As if all trouble were some grave mistake ! Thou little bird, how canst thou thus rejoice, As if the world had known nor sin nor curse ? God never meant to mock us with that voice ! That is the key-note of the universe, That song of perfect trust, of perfect cheer, Courageous, constant, free of doubt or fear. My little helper, ah, my comrade sweet, My old companion in that far-orT time When on life's threshold childhood's winged feet Danced in the sunrise ! Joy was at its prime When all my heart responded to thy song, Unconscious of earth's discords harsh and strong. Now, grown aweary, sad with change and loss, With the enigma of myself dismayed ; Poor, save in deep desire to bear the cross WITH BIRDS AND POETS 23 God's hand on his defenceless creatures laid, With patience, — here I sit this eve of spring, And listen with bowed head, while thou dost sing. And slowly all my soul with comfort fills, And the old hope revives and courage grows ; Up the deserted shore a fresh tide thrills, And like a dream the dark mood melts and goes, And with thy joy again will I rejoice : God never meant to mock us with that voice ! Celia Thaxter. THE SONG-SPARROW There is a bird I know so well, It seems as if he must have sung Reside my crib when I was young; Before I knew the way to spell The name of even the smallest bird His gentle-joyful song I heard. Now see if you can tell, my dear, What bird it is that, every year, Sings "Sweet-sweet-sweet — very merry cheer" He comes in March, when winds are strong, And snow returns to hide the earth ; But still he warms his heart with mirth, And waits for May. He lingers long While flowers fade ; and every day Repeats his small, contented lay ; As if to say, we need not fear The season's change, if love is here With " Sweet-sweet-sweet — very merry cheer." 24 THROUGH THE YEAR He does not wear a Joseph's coat Of many colours, smart and gay : His suit is Quaker brown and gray, With darker patches at his throat. And yet of all the well-dressed throng Not one can sing so brave a song. It makes the pride of looks appear A vain and foolish thing to hear His " Sweet-sweet-sweet — very merry cheer" Henry Van Dyke. From " The Builders and other Poems," copyright, 1897, by Charles Scribner's Sons. THE ROBIN Thou need'st not flutter from thy half-built nest When e'er thou hear'st man's hurrying feet go by, Fearing his eye for harm may on thee rest, Or he thy young's unfinished cottage spy ; All will not heed thee on that swinging bough, Nor care that round thy shelter spring the leaves, Nor watch thee on the pool's wet margin now For clay to plaster straws thy cunning weaves ; All will not hear thy sweet out-pouring joy That with morn's stillness blends the voice of song, For over-anxious cares their souls employ, That else, upon thy music borne along And the light wings of heart-ascending prayer, Had learned that Heaven is pleased thy simple joys to share. Jones Very. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 25 THE ROBIN His is the sweetest note in all our woods. The whistle of the meadow-lark is sweet, The blackbird's rapid chant fills all the vale, And touchingly sweet the unincumbered song That the thrush warbles in the green-wood shade ; Yet is the robin still our sweetest bird, And beautiful as sweet. His ruddy breast When poised on high, struck by the unrisen sun, Glows from its altitude, and to the sight Presents a burning vestiture of gold ; And his dark pinions, softly spread, improved By contrast, shame the blackbird's jetty plumes. Less wild than others of the tuneful choir, Oft on the tree that shades the farmer's hut, Close by his door, the little architect Fixes his home, — though field-groves, and the woods, Where the small streams murmur sweetly, loves he most. Who seeks his nest may find it deftly hid In fork of branching elm, or poplar shade ; And sometimes on the lawn ; though rarely be, The one that sings the sweetest, chooses thus His habitation. Seek for it in deep And tangled hollows, up some pretty brook, That, prattling o'er the loose white pebbles, chides The echoes with a soft monotony Of softest music. There, upon the bough That arches it, of fragrance-breathing birch, Or kalmia branching in unnumbered forms, He builds his moss-lined dwelling. First, he lays, 26 THROUGH THE YEAR Transverse, dried bents picked from the forest walks ; Or in the glen, where downward with fell force The mountain torrent rushes, — these all coated With slime unsightly. Soon the builder shows An instinct far surpassing human skill, And lines it with a layer of soft wool, Picked from the thorn where brushed the straggled flock ; Or with an intertexture of soft hairs, Or moss, or feathers. Finally, complete, — The usual list of eggs appear, — and lo ! Four in the whole, and softly tinged with blue. And now the mother-bird the livelong day Sits on her charge, nor leaves it for her mate, Save just to dip her bill into the stream, Or gather needful sustenance. Meanwhile, The mate, assiduous, guards that mother-bird Patient upon her nest ; and, at her side, Or overhead, or on the adverse bank, Nestled, he all the tedious time beguiles, Wakes his wild notes, and sings the hours away. But soon again new duties wake the pair ; Their young appear. Love knocking at their hearts, Alert they start, as by sure instinct led, — That beautiful divinity in birds I And now they hop along the forest edge, Or dive into the ravines of the woods, Or roam the fields, or skim the mossy bank Shading some runnel with its antique forms, Pecking for sustenance. Or now they mount WITH BIRDS AND POETS 27 Into mid-air ; or poise on half-shut wing, Skimming for insects in the dewy beam, Gayly disporting ; or now, sweeping down Where the wild brook flows on with ceaseless laughter, Moisten their bills awhile, then soar away. And so they weary out the needful hours, Preaching, meanwhile, sound lesson unto man ! Till plump, and fledged, their little ones essay Their native element. At first they fail : Flutter awhile ; then, screaming, sink plump down, Prizes for school-boys. Yet the more escape ; And, wiser grown and stronger, soon their wings Obedient send they forth ; when, confident, They try the forest tops, or skim the flood, Or fly up in the shirts of the white clouds, — Till, all at once, they start, a mirthful throng, Burst into voice, and the wide forest rings ! William Thompson Bacon. ROBIN'S THANKSGIVING PROCLAMATION Ho all ye Massachusetts birds ! To Boston Common flock ; And we will raise a hymn of praise To make the State House rock. For never since the white man took Our Heaven-born rights away Have we had cause to keep as now A glad Thanksgiving Day. 28 THROUGH THE YEAR The old Bay State — thank God ! — has made Her feathered children free ; And birds and men together dwell In peace and amity. Big yellowhammer, fetch your drum And beat a " rat-tat- too ; " And all the downy woodpeckers Shall furnish sticks for you. Come, busy nuthatch, with your awl, But never mind your notes, Unless you've dropped your nasal chords And tuned your husky throats. Dear Quaker titmouse, fetch along In Chickadese your score ; And don't forget your "phoebe " song To meet the first encore. And all ye little sparrow birds, Put on your daintiest frills ; And fill your bosoms full of notes Of quavers, and of trills. You modest creeper clad in brown, They say you sing — in firs — If so, you'll surely come to town, Nor fear the milliners. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 29 The grateful choir of winter birds Shall make the welkin ring 'Til all the migrants hurry north To see if it is spring. And when the summer birds come back, To stay in Fatherland, We'll join the coats of varied hue And form a patriot band. To rid the soil of every foe, To guard the leafy trees, And make of all the noxious weeds Our wholesome granaries. And now three cheers, and robins lead, For legislators kind ; And three for Hoar whom we adore For speaking out our mind. And all ye little female birds, Join in as heart delights ; For friendly Hoar — God bless him more ! — Believes in equal rights. Then for our State, to latest time Millennial joy we'll seek ; While o'er and o'er we sing of Hoar, The champion of the weak. October, 1897, after the passage of a protective law largely due to Senator Hoar's Bird Petition to the General Court of Massachu- setts. Ella Gilbert Ives. 30 THROUGH THE YEAR TAMPA ROBINS The robin laughed in the orange-tree : " Ho, windy North, a fig for thee : While breasts are red and wings are bold And green trees wave us globes of gold, Time's scythe shall reap but bliss for me, Sunlight, song, and the orange-tree. " Burn, golden globes in leafy sky, My orange planets : crimson I Will shine and shoot among the spheres (Blithe meteor that no mortal fears) And thrid the heavenly orange-tree With orbits bright of minstrelsy. " If that I hate wild winter's spite — The gibbet trees, the world in white, The sky but gray wind over a grave — Why should I ache, the season's slave? I'll sing from the top of the orange-tree Gramercy, winters tyranny. " I'll south with the sun, and keep my clime ; My wing is king of the summer-time ; My breast to the sun his torch shall hold ; And I'll call down through the green and gold, Time, take thy scythe, reap bliss for me, Bestir thee under the orange-tree" Sidney Lanier. From " Poems of Sidney Lanier," copyright, 18S4, J 89 I » by Mary D. Lanier, and published by Charles Scribner's Sons. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 3 1 WHY ROBIN'S BREAST IS RED The Saviour bowed beneath his cross, Clomb up the dreary hill, While from his agonizing brow Ran many a crimson rill. The brawny Roman thrust him on With unrelenting hand, Till, staggering slowly 'mid the crowd, He sank upon the sand. A little song-bird hovering near, That immemorial day, Fluttered around and strove to wrench ' One single thorn away. The cruel spike impaled his breast, And thus, 'tis sweetly said, The robin has his silver vest Incarnadined with red ! Ah, Jesu ! Jesu ! Prince of Peace, My dolor and my sighs Reveal the lesson taught by this Winged Ishmael of the skies. I, in the palace of delight, Or caverns of despair, Have plucked no thorns from thy dear brow, But planted thousands there ! James R. Randall. 32 THROUGH THE YEAR THE ROBIN My old Welsh neighbor over the way Crept slowly out in the sun of spring, Pushed from her ears the locks of gray, And listened to hear the robins siog. Her grandson, playing at marbles, stopped, And, cruel in sport as boys will be, Tossed a stone at the bird, who hopped From bough to bough in the apple-tree. " Nay ! " said the grandmother, " have you not heard, My poor, bad boy ! of the fiery pit, And how, drop by drop, this merciful bird Carries the water that quenches it ? " He brings cool dew in his little bill, And lets it fall on the souls of sin : You can see the mark on his red breast still Of fires that scorch as he drops it in. " My poor Bron rhuddyn ! my breast-burned bird ! Singing so sweetly from limb to limb, Very dear to the heart of Our Lord Is he who pities the lost like Him ! " " Amen ! " I said to the beautiful myth ; " Sing, bird of God, in my heart as well : Each good thought is a drop wherewith To cool and and lessen the fires of hell. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 33 " Prayers of love like raindrops fall, Tears of pity are cooling dew, And dear to the heart of Our Lord are all Who suffer like Him in the good they do ! " John G. Whittier. ROBIN'S MATE Everybody praises Robin, Singing early, singing late ; But who ever thinks of saying A good word for Robin's Mate? Yet she's everything to Robin, Silent partner though she be ; Source and theme and inspiration Of each madrigal and glee. For as she with mute devotion Shapes and curves the plastic nest, Fashioning a tiny cradle, With the pressure of her breast ; So the love in that soft bosom Moulds his being as 'twere clay, Prints upon his breast the music Of his most impassioned lay. And, when next you praise the Robin Flinging wide the tuneful gate To his eager brood of love-notes, Don't forget the Robin's Mate. Ella Gilbert Ives. 34 THROUGH THE YEAR HOW THE ROBIN CAME AN ALGONQUIN LEGEND Happy young friends, sit by me, Under May's blown apple-tree, While these home-birds in and out Through the blossoms flit about. Hear a story, strange and old, By the wild red Indians told, How the robin came to be : Once a great chief left his son — Well-beloved, his only one — When the boy was well-nigh grown, In the trial-lodge alone. Left for tortures long and slow, Youths like him must undergo, Who their pride of manhood test, Lacking water, food, and rest. Seven days the fast he kept, Seven nights he never slept. Then the young boy, wrung with pain, Weak from nature's overstrain, Faltering, moaned a low complaint : " Spare me, father, for I faint ! " But the chieftain, haughty-eyed, Hid his pity in his pride. " You shall be a hunter good, Knowing never lack of food ; You shall be a warrior great, WITH BIRDS AND POETS 35 Wise as fox and strong as bear ; Many scalps your belt shall wear, If with patient heart you wait Bravely till your task is done. Better you should starving die Than that boy and squaw should cry Shame upon your father's son ! " When next morn the sun's first rays Glistened on the hemlock sprays, Straight that lodge the old chief sought, And boiled samp and moose meat brought. " Rise and eat, my son ! " he said. Lo, he found the poor boy dead ! As with grief his grave they made, And his bow beside him laid, Pipe, and knife, and wampum- braid. On the lodge-top overhead, Preening smooth its breast of red And the brown coat that it wore, Sat a bird, unknown before. And as if with human tongue, " Mourn me not," it said, or sung; " I, a bird, am still your son, Happier than if hunter fleet, Or a brave, before your feet Laying scalps in battle won. Friend of man, my song shall cheer Lodge and corn-land ; hovering near To each wigwam I shall bring Tidings of the coming spring ; 36 THROUGH THE YEAR Every child my. voice shall know In the moon of melting snow, When the maple's red bud swells, And the wind-flower lifts its bells. As their fond companion Men shall henceforth own your son, And my song shall testify That of human kin am I." Thus the Indian legend saith How, at first, the robin came With a sweeter life than death, Bird for boy, and still the same. If my young friends doubt that this Is the robin's genesis, Not in vain is still the myth If a truth be found therewith : Unto gentleness belong Gifts unknown to pride and wrong ; Happier far than hate is praise, — He who sings than he who slays. John G. Whittier. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 37 PHCEBE Ere pales in Heaven the morning star, A bird, the loneliest of its kind, Hears Dawn's faint footfall from afar; While all its mates are dumb and blind. It is a wee sad-colored thing, As shy and secret as a maid That, ere in choir the robins sing, Pipes its own name like one afraid. It seems pain-prompted to repeat The story of some ancient ill, But Phoebe f Phoebe ! sadly sweet, Is all it says, and then is still. It calls and listens. Earth and sky, Hushed by the pathos of its fate, Listen : no whisper of reply Comes from its doom-dissevered mate. Phoebe ! it calls and calls again, And Ovid, could he but have heard, Had hung a legendary pain About the memory of the bird. A pain articulate so long In penance of some mouldered crime Whose ghost still flies the Furies' thong Down the waste solitudes of time. 38 THROUGH THE YEAR Waif of the young World's wonder-hour, When gods found mortal maidens fair, And will malign was joined with power Love's kindly laws to overbear. Like Progne, did it feel the stress And coil of the prevailing words Close round its being, and compress Man's ampler nature to a bird's? One only memory left of all The motley crowd of vanished scenes, Hers, and vain impulse to recall By repetition what it means. Phozbe ! is all it has to say In plaintive cadence o'er and o'er, Like children that have lost their way, And know their names, but nothing more. Is it a type, since Nature's lyre Vibrates to every note in man, Of that insatiable desire, Meant to be so since life began? I, in strange lands at gray of dawn, Wakeful, have heard that fruitless plaint Through memory's chambers deep withdrawn Renew its iterations faint. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 39 So nigh ! yet from remotest years It summons back its magic, rife With longings unappeased, and tears Drawn from the very source of life. James Russell Lowell. THE PHOEBE-BIRD (a reply) Yes, I was wrong about the phcebe-bird, — Two songs it has, and both of them I've heard : I did not know those strains of joy and sorrow Came from one throat, or that each note could borrow Strength from the other, making one more brave And one as sad as rain-drops on a grave. But thus it is. Two songs have men and maidens : One is for hey-day, one for sorrow's cadence. Our voices vary with the changing seasons Of life's long years, for deep and natural reasons. Therefore despair not. Think not you have altered If at some time the gayer note has faltered. We are as God has made us. Gladness, pain, Delight and death, and moods of bliss or bane, With love and hate, or good and evil — all, At separate times, in separate accents call ; Yet 'tis the same heart-throb within the breast That gives an impulse to our worst and best. I doubt not when our earthly cries are ended, The listener finds them in one music blended. George Parsons Lathrop. From " Dreams and Days." Copyright, 1892, by Charles Scribner's Sons. 40 THROUGH THE YEAR TO THE PHCEBE BIRD Each blessed morning, Much to my scorning, You're up and waiting for Phoebe dear ; And still your calling, When day is falling, Doleful as ever salutes the ear. We all admire The constant fire Supposed to burn in lover's breast ; Yet glints of reason May do no treason To faith and love and all the rest. This endless sighing, These threats of dying, Only provoke the maiden's scorn ; 'Tis arrant folly Not to be jolly Despite of any maid that's born ! Your mournful wailing Is unavailing ; You'd more effect if you should swear ! This heartless Phoebe — Whoever she be — For all your sighs will nothing care. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 4 1 Why don't you flout her, And vow you doubt her, And rate her for an arrant jade ? You'd soon subdue her If so you'd woo her ; She'll never love till she's afraid. You, silly songster, Protest, "Thou wrong'st her ! " But I've been longer born than you ; I know the sex, sir, Their tricks to vex, sir ; Flame when you scorn, ice when you sue ! Arlo Bates. PEWEE Sweet promise of the sunny days, Thy restless form is dear to me ; Though homely are thy plaintive lays, Thy simple carol, brown pee-wee. I see thee build thy rustic fort Beneath the bridge's mouldering arch ; And joy to hear thy love's report Above the boisterous breath of March. Thou comest from distant wood or bower To scenes which smiled upon thy birth, While trees are bare, and scarce a flower Is scattered o'er the cold, moist earth; 42 THROUGH THE YEAR While Spring is in her changeful moods, And now unlocks the icy rill ; When in the hollows of the woods The unsunned snow is lingering still. Thou living memory of the days When I was young and gay like thee, Thou lead'st me thro' the gathering haze Back to the light of infancy ; To morning hours when oft I trod The spongy fields in search of thee, When Draba starred the chilly sod In a pale, tiny galaxy. Once, in a kindly winter day, By Alabama's waters rude, I saw thee on the mossy spray That stretched in leafless solitude, Upon the steep bank's crumbling side, Enriched with many a fossil shell ; And truly, 'twas with joy and pride I saw thee in thy precinct dwell. For then it lost its alien face And Fancy dwelt in home once more ; I seemed in early Spring's embrace, Beside my far ancestral door. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 43 And when shall come the fatal night, Amid my weakness, grief, and pain, I would behold thy circling flight, And die while listening to thy strain. T. A. Conrad. THE FISH-HAWK 1 (OSPREY) Soon as the sun, great ruler of the year, Bends to our northern clime his bright career, And from the caves of ocean calls from sleep The finny shoals and myriads of the deep ; When freezing tempests back to Greenland ride, And day and night the equal hours divide ; ' True to the season, o'er our sea-beat shore, The sailing osprey high is seen to soar, With broad unmoving wing, and, circling slow, Marks each loose straggler in the deep below ; Sweeps down like lightning ! plunges with a roar ! And bears his struggling victim to the shore. The long-housed fisherman beholds with joy The well-known signals of his rough employ ; And as he bears his nets and oars along, Thus hails the welcome season with a song. Alexander Wilson. 1,1 The regular arrival of this noted bird at the vernal equinox, when the busy season of fishing- commences, adds peculiar interest to its first appear- ance, and procures it many a benediction from the fishermen." 44 THROUGH THE YEAR THE FISHERMAN'S HYMN The osprey sails above the sound ; The geese are gone, the gulls are flying ; The herring shoals swarm thick around ; The nets are launched, the boats are plying. Yo, ho, my hearts ! let's seek the deep, Raise high the song, and cheerly wish her, Still as the bending net we sweep, " God bless the Fish hawk and the fisher ! " She brings us fish — she brings us Spring, Good times, fair weather, warmth, and plenty ; Fine store of shad, trout, herring, ling, Sheep's-head and drum, and old wives dainty. Yo, ho, my hearts ! let's seek the deep, Ply every oar, and cheerly wish her, Still as the bending net we sweep, " God bless the Fish hawk and the fisher ! " She rears her young on yonder tree ; She leaves her faithful mate to mind 'em ; Like us, for fish she sails to sea, And, plunging, shows us where to find 'em. Yo, ho, my hearts ! let's seek the deep, Ply every oar, and cheerly wish her, While slow; the bending net we sweep, " God bless the Fish hawk and the fisher ! " Alexander Wilson. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 45 THE CROW Then it is a distant cawing, Growing louder — coming nearer, Tells of crows returning inland From their winter on the marshes. Iridescent is their plumage, Loud their voices, bold their clamor, In the pools and shallows wading ■ Or in overflowing meadows Searching for the waste of winter — Scraps and berries freed by thawing. Weird their notes, and hoarse their croaking ; Silent only when the night comes. Frank Bolles. Over the tree-tops yonder flies a crow That boldly vents his unpopular caw, And breasts the stubborn wind to gain the shore, And cram his crop with what the tide brings in. A Morning Pastoral. — Henry Abbey. APRIL Only once more to feel the coming spring, As the birds feel it when it bids the?n sing. Ag-assiz. — James Russell Lowell. Bid the little homely sparrows, Chirping in the cold and rain, Their impatient, sweet complaining, Sing out from their hearts again, Bid them set theniselves to mating, Cooing love in softest words, Crowd their nests, all cold and empty, Full of little callow birds. An April Welcome. — Phoebe Cary. Sparrows far off, and nearer, ApriPs bird, Blue- coated, flying before from tree to tree, Courageous sing a delicate overture To lead the tardy concert of the year. Musketaquid.— Ralph Waldo Emerson. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 49 WILD GEESE A far, strange sound through the night, A dauntless and resolute cry, Clear in the tempest's despite, Ringing so wild and so high. Darkness and tumult and dread, Rain and the battling of gales, Yet cleaving the storm overhead, The wedge of the wild geese sails. Pushing their perilous way, Buffeted, beaten, and vexed ; Steadfast by night and by day, Weary, but never perplexed ; Sure that the land of their hope Waits beyond tempest and dread, Sure that the dark where they grope Shall glow with the morning red ! Clangor that pierces the storm Dropped from the gloom of the sky ! I sit by my hearth-fire warm And thrill to that purposeful cry. Strong as a challenge sent out, Rousing the timorous heart To battle with fear and with doubt, Courageously bearing its part. O birds in the wild, wild sky ! Would I could so follow God's way 50 THROUGH THE YEAR Through darkness, unquestioning why, With only one thought — to obey ! Celia Thaxter. THE FLIGHT OF THE GEESE I hear the low wind wash the softening snow, The low tide loiter down the shore. The night Full filled with April forecast, hath no light. The salt wave on the sedge-flat pulses slow. Through the hid furrows lisp in murmurous flow The thaw's shy ministers ; and hark ! The height Of heaven grows weird and loud with unseen flight Of strong hosts prophesying as they go ! High through the drenched and hollow night their wings Beat northward hard on winter's trail. The sound Of their confused and solemn voices, borne Athwart the dark to their long Arctic morn, Comes with a sanction and an awe profound, A boding of unknown, foreshadowed things. Charles G. D. Roberts. THE PASSING OF THE WILD GEESE Ye white-winged prophets of the coming spring, With trumpet tones ye make the welkin ring. Thrice glad ye make us with your wild hosannas, Winging your way from sunny, green savannas. We watch and see your light forms disappear Far in the blue, transparent atmosphere, While echoes in our breast your glad refrain, And faith grows quick that spring will come again. Richard Hoe Barrows. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 5 1 BIRDS IN APRIL Here when cloudless April days begin, And the quaint crows flock thicker day by day, Filling the forests with a pleasant din, And the soiled snow creeps secretly away, Comes the small busy sparrow, primed with glee, First preacher in the naked wilderness, Piping an end to all the long distress From every fence and every leafless tree. The Meadow. — Archibald Lampman. The birds are here, for all the season's late ; They take the sun's height, an' don' never wait ; Sbon'z he officially declares it's spring Their light hearts lift 'em on a north'ard wing, An' th' ain't an acre, fur ez you can hear, Can't by the music tell the time o' year. Biglow Papers. — James Russell Lowell. The crows go by, a noisy throng ; About the meadows all day long The shore-lark drops his brittle song ; And up the leafless tree The nuthatch runs, and nods, and clings ; The bluebird dips with flashing wings, The robin flutes, the sparrow sings, And the swallows float and flee. April in the Hills. — Archibald Lampman. 52 THROUGH THE YEAR Glad of the spring, and of love, and of morning the wild birds were singing ; Jays to each other called harshly, then mellowly fluted together ; Sang the oriole songs as golden and gay as his plumage ; Pensively piped the querulous quails their greetings un- frequent, While, on the meadow elm, the meadow lark gushed forth in music, Rapt, exultant, and shaken with the great joy of his singing; Over the river, loud-chattering, aloft in the air, the kingfisher Hung, ere he dropped, like a bolt, in the water beneath him ; Gossiping, out of the bank flew myriad twittering swallows ; And in the boughs of the sycamores quarrelled and clamored the blackbirds. The Movers.— William D. Howells. SPRING IN NEW ENGLAND Each day are heard, and almost every hour, New notes to swell the music of the groves, And soon the latest of the feathered train At evening twilight come ; — the lonely snipe, O'er marshy fields, high in the dusky air, Invisible, but, with faint, tremulous tones, Hovering or playing o'er the listener's head ; — And, in mid-air, the sportive night-hawk, seen Flying awhile at random, uttering oft WITH BIRDS AND POETS 53 A cheerful cry, attended with a shake Of level pinions, dark, but when upturned Against the brightness of the western sky, One white plume showing in the midst of each, Then far down diving with a hollow sound ; And, deep at first within the distant wood, The whip-poor-will, her name her only song. She, soon as children from the noisy sport Of whooping, laughing, talking with all tones, To hear the echoes of the empty barn, Are by her voice diverted, and held mute, Comes to the margin of the nearest grove ; And when the twilight, deepened into night, Calls them within, close to the house she comes, And on its dark side, haply on the step Of unfrequented door, lighting unseen, Breaks into strains articulate and clear, The closing sometimes quickened as in sport. Now, animate throughout, from morn to eve All harmony, activity, and joy, Is lovely nature, as in her blest prime. The robin to the garden, or green yard, Close to the door repairs to build again Within her wonted tree ; and at her work Seems doubly busy for her past delay. Along the surface of the winding stream, Pursuing every turn, gay swallows skim, Or round the borders of the spacious lawn Fly in repeated circles, rising o'er Hillock and fence with motion serpentine, 54 THROUGH THE YEAR Easy and light. One snatches from the ground A downy feather, and then upward springs, Followed by others, but oft drops it soon, In playful mood, or from too slight a hold, When all at once dart at the falling prize. The flippant blackbird with light yellow crown, Hangs fluttering in the air, and chatters thick Till her breath fail, when, breaking off, she drops On the next tree, and on its highest limb, Or some tall flag, and gently rocking, sits, Her strain repeating. With sonorous notes Of every tone, mixed in confusion sweet, All chanted in the fulness of delight, The forest rings : — where, far around enclosed With bushy sides, and covered high above With foliage thick, supported by bare trunks, Like pillars rising to support a roof, It seems a temple vast, the space within Rings loud and clear with thrilling melody. Apart, but near the choir, with voice distinct, The merry mocking-bird together links In one continued song their different notes, Adding new life and sweetness to them all. The Age of Benevolence. — Carlos Wilcox. TO AN EARLY SWALLOW My little bird of the air, If thou dost know, then tell me the sweet reason Thou comest alway, duly in thy season, To build and pair. For still we hear thee twittering round the eaves ; .. -yrfrriH Blue-backed Swallow WITH BIRDS AND POETS 55 Ere yet the attentive cloud of April lowers Up from their darkened heath to call the flowers, Where, all the rough, hard weather They kept together, Under their low brown roof of withered leaves. And for a moment still Thy ever-tuneful bill, And tell me, and I pray thee tell me true, If any cruel care thy bosom frets, The while thou flittest, plowlike, through the air — Thy wings so swift and slim, Turned downward, darkly dim, Like furrows on a ground of violets. Nay, tell me not, my swallow, But have thy pretty way, And prosperously follow The leading of the sunshine all the day. Thy virtuous example Maketh my foolish questions answer ample. It is thy large delights keep open wide Thy little mouth ; thou hast no pain to hide : And when thou leavest all the green-topped woods Pining below, and with melodious floods Flatterest the heavy clouds, it is, I know, Because, my bird, thou canst not choose but go Higher and ever higher Into the purple fire That lights the morning meadows with heart's ease, And sticks the hillsides full of primroses. 56 THROUGH THE YEAR But tell me, my good bird/ If thou canst tune thy tongue to any word Wherewith to answer — pray thee tell me this : Where gottest thou thy song Still thrilling all day long, Slivered to fragments by its very bliss ! Not, as I guess, Of any whistling swain, With cheek as richly russet as the grain Sown in his furrows ; nor, I further guess, Of any shepherdess, Whose tender heart did drag Through the dim hollows of her golden flag After a faithless love — while far and near The waterfalls, to hear, Clung by their white arms to the cold, deaf rocks, And all the unkempt flocks Strayed idly. Nay, I know, If ever any love-lorn maid did blow On such a pitiful pipe, thou didst not get In such sad wise thy heart to music set. So, lower not down to me From its high home thy ever-busy wing : I know right well thy song was shaped for thee By His unwearying power Who makes the days about the Easter flower Like gardens round the chamber of a king. And whether, when the sobering year hath run His brief course out, and thou away dost hie WITH BIRDS AND POETS $7 To find thy pleasant summer company ; Or whether, my brown darling of the sun, When first the South, to welcome up the May, Hangs wide her saffron gate, And thou, from the uprising of the day Till eventide in shadow round thee closes, Pourest thy joyance over field and wood, As if thy very blood Were drawn from out the young hearts of the roses. 'Tis all to celebrate And all to praise The careful kindness of His gracious ways Who builds the golden weather So tenderly about thy houseless brood — Thy unfledged homeless brood, and thee together. Ah ! these are the sweet reasons, My little swimmer of the seas and air, Thou comest, goest, duly in thy season ; And furthermore, that all men everywhere May learn from thy enjoyment That that which maketh life most good and fair Is heavenly employment. Alice Cary. 58 THROUGH THE YEAR THE FIRST MOCKING-BIRD IN SPRING Winged poet of vernal ethers ! Ah ! where hast thou lingered long ? I have missed thy passionate, skyward nights And the trills of thy changeful song. Hast thou been in the hearts of woodlands old Half dreaming, and, drowsed by the winter's cold, Just crooning the ghost of thy springtide lay To the listless shadows, benumbed and gray? Or hast thou strayed by a tropic shore, And lavished, O sylvan troubadour ! The boundless wealth of thy music free On the dimpling waves of the Southland sea? What matter? Thou comest with magic strain, To the morning haunts of thy life again, And thy melodies fall in a rhythmic rain. The wren and the field-lark listen To the gush from their laureate's throat ; And the bluebird stops on the oak to catch Each rounded and perfect note. The sparrow, his pert head reared aloft, Has ceased to chirp in the grassy croft, And is bending the curves of his tiny ear In the pose of a critic wise, to hear. A blackbird, perched on a glistening gum, Seems lost in a rapture, deep and dumb ; And as eagerly still in his tranced hush, 'Mid the copse beneath, is a clear-eyed thrush. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 59 No longer the dove by the thorn-tree root Moans sad and soft as a far-off flute. All Nature is hearkening, charmed and mute. We scarce can deem it a marvel, For the songs our nightingale sings Throb warm and sweet with the rhythmic beat Of the fervors of countless springs. All beautiful measures of sky and earth Outpour in a second and rarer birth From that mellow throat. When the winds are whist, And he follows his mate to their sunset tryst, Where the wedded myrtles and jasmine twine, Oh ! the swell of his music is half divine ! And I vaguely wonder, O bird ! can it be That a human spirit hath part in thee ? Some Lesbian singer's who died perchance Too soon in the summer of Greek romance, But the rich reserves of whose broken lay, In some mystical, wild, undreamed-of way, Find voice in thy bountiful strains to-day ! Paul Hamilton Hayne. 60 THROUGH THE YEAR TO THE MOCKING-BIRD Carolling bird, that merrily night and day Tellest thy raptures from the rustling spray, And wakest the morning with thy varied lay, Singing thy matins, — When we have come to hear thy sweet oblation Of love and joyance from thy sylvan station, Why in the place of musical cantation Balk us with pratings ? We stroll by moonlight in the dusky forest Where the tall cypress shields thee, fervent chorist ! And sit in haunts of echoes when thou pourest Thy woodland solo. Hark ! from the next green tree thy song commences ; Music and discord join to mock the senses, Repeated from the tree-tops and the fences, From hill and hollow ! A hundred voices mingle with thy clamor ; Bird, beast, and reptile take part in thy drama ; Outspeak they all in turn without a stammer, — Brisk polyglot ! Voices of kill- deer, plover, duck, and dotterel; Notes, bubbling, hissing, mellow, sharp, and guttural, Of catbird, cat, or cartwheel, thou canst utter all, And all untaught. The raven's croak, the chirrup of the sparrow, The jay's harsh note, the creaking of a barrow, The hoot of owls, all join the soul to harrow WITH BIRDS AND POETS 6 1 And grate the ear. We listen to thy quaint soliloquizing, As if all creatures thou wert catechizing, Tuning their voices, and their notes revising From far and near. Sweet bird, that surely lovest the " noise of folly," Most musical, but never melancholy ; Disturber of the hour that should be holy, With sounds prodigious, Fie on thee ! O thou feathered Paganini ! To use thy little pipes to squawk and whinny, And emulate the hinge and spinning- jenny, Making night hideous. Provoking melodist ! why canst thou breathe us No thrilling harmony, no charming pathos, No cheerful song of love, without a bathos ? The Furies take thee ! Blast thy obstreperous mirth, thy foolish chatter, — Gag thee, exhaust thy breath, and stop thy clatter, And change thee to a beast, thou senseless prater ! Naught else can check thee ! A lengthened pause ensues ; but hark again ! From the near woodland, stealing o'er the plain, Comes forth a sweeter and a holier strain ! Listening delighted, The gales breathe softly, as they bear along The warbled treasure, the tumultuous throng Of notes that swell accordant in the song, As love is plighted. 62 THROUGH THE YEAR The echoes, joyful, from their vocal cell, Leap with the winged sounds o'er hill and dell, With kindling fervor as the chimes they tell To wakeful even : They melt upon the ear ; they float away, They rise, they sink, they hasten, they delay, And hold the listener with bewitching sway, Like sounds from heaven. Wilson Flagg. From " A Year with the Birds," published by Educational Publishing Company. TO OUR MOCKING-BIRD DIED OF A CAT, MAY, 1 8 78 I Trillets of humor, — shrewdest whistle-wit, — Contralto cadences of grave desire Such as from off the passionate Indian pyre Drift down through sandal-odored flames that split About the slim young widow who doth sit And sing above, — midnights of tone entire, — Tissues of moonlight shot with songs of fire ; Bright drops of tune, from oceans infinite Of melody, sipped off the thin-edged wave And trickling down the beak, — discourses brave Of serious matter that no man may guess, — Good-fellow greetings, cries of light distress — All these but now within the house we heard. O Death, wast thou too deaf to hear the bird? WITH BIRDS AND POETS 63 II Ah me, though never an ear for song, thou hast A tireless tooth for songsters : thus of late Thou earnest, Death, thou Cat ! and leap'st my gate, And, long ere Love could follow, thou hadst passed Within and snatched away, how fast, how fast, My bird — wit, songs, and all — thy richest freight Since that fell time when in some wink of fate Thy yellow claws unsheathed and stretched, and cast Sharp hold on Keats, and dragged him slow away, And harried him with hope and horrid play — Ay, him, the world's best wood-bird, wise with song — Till thou hadst wrought thine own last mortal wrong. 'Twas wrong ! 'twas wrong ! I care not, wrong's , the word — To munch our Keats and crunch our mocking-bird. Ill Nay, Bird; my grief gainsays the Lord's best right. The Lord was fain, at some late festal time, That Keats should set all Heaven's woods in rhyme, And thou in bird-notes. Lo, this tearful night, Methinks I see thee, fresh from death's despite, Perched in a palm-grove, wild with pantomime, O'er blissful companies couched in shady thyme, — Methinks I hear thy silver whistlings bright Mix with the mighty discourse of the wise, Till broad Beethoven, deaf no more, and Keats, 'Midst of much talk, uplift their smiling eyes, And mark the music of thy wood-conceits, And halfway pause on some large, courteous word, And call thee " Brother," O thou Heavenly Bird ! Sidney Lanier. From "Poems of Sidney Lanier," copyright, 1884, 1S91, by MaryD. Lanier, and published by Charles Scribner's Sons. 64 THROUGH THE YEAR TO A MOCKING-BIRD The name thou wearest does thee grievous wrong ; No mimic thou : that voice is thine alone. The poets sing but strains of Shakespeare's song ; The birds, but notes of thine imperial own. Henry Jerome Stockard. MOCKING-BIRD Then from a neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, wild- est of singers, Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water, Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music That the whole air, and the woods, and the waves, seemed silent to listen. Plaintive at first were the tones and sad ; then soaring to madness Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes. Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamenta- tion ; Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision, As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree- tops Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the branches. • Evangeline. — Henry W. Longfellow. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 65 THE MOCKING-BIRD Nor did lack Sweet music to the magic of the scene : The little crimson-breasted Nonpareil Was there, his tiny feet scarce bending down The silken tendril that he lighted on To pour his love notes ; and in russet coat, Most homely, like true genius bursting forth In spite of adverse fortune, a full choir Within himself, the merry Mock Bird sate, Filling the air with melody ; and at times, In the rapt fervor of his sweetest song, His quivering form would spring into the sky In spiral circles, as if he would catch New powers from kindred warblers in the clouds Who would bend down to greet him / William Henry Timrod. THE" MOCKING-BIRD From the vale, what music ringing Fills the bosom of the night, On the sense, entranced, flinging Spells of witchery and delight ! O'er magnolia, lime, and cedar, From yon locust-top, it swells Like the chant of serenader Or the chimes of silver bells ! Listen ! dearest, listen to it ! Sweeter sounds were never heard ! 'Tis the song of that wild poet, — Mime and minstrel, — Mocking- Bird. 66 THROUGH THE YEAR See him, swinging in his glory, On yon topmost bending limb ! Carolling his amorous story, Like some wild crusader's hymn. Now it faints in tones delicious As the first low vow of love ! Now it bursts in swells capricious All the moonlit vale above ! Listen ! dearest, etc. Why is't thus, this sylvan Petrarch Pours all night his serenade ? 'Tis for some proud woodland Laura His sad sonnets all are made ! But he changes now his measure, — Gladness bubbling from his mouth, -— Jest and gibe, and mimic pleasure, Winged Anacreon of the South ! Listen ! dearest, etc. Bird of music, wit, and gladness, Troubadour of sunny climes, Disenchanter of all sadness, — Would thine art were in my rhymes ! O'er the heart that's beating by me I would weave a spell divine ; Is there aught she could deny me Drinking in such strains as thine ? Listen ! dearest, etc. Alexander Beaufort Meek. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 6/ THE MOCKING-BIRD Superb and sole, upon a plumed spray That o'er the general leafage boldly grew, He summ'd the woods in song ; or typic drew The watch of hungry hawks, the lone dismay Of languid doves when long their lovers stray, And all birds' passion-plays that sprinkle dew At morn in brake or bosky avenue. Whate'er birds did or dreamed, this bird could say. Then down he shot, bounced airily along The sward, twitched in a grasshopper, made song Midflight, perched, prinked, and to his art again. Sweet Science, this large riddle read me plain : How may the death of that dull insect be The life of yon trim Shakspere on the tree ? Sidney Lanier. From '• Poems of Sidney Lanier," copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D. Lanier, and published by Charles Scribner's Sons. 68 THROUGH THE YEAR TO AN ENGLISH NIGHTINGALE Hear! Hear! Oh, will you hear ? Reed-notes clear (Fluted in flowery, May-drowsed solitudes, Filtered through sun-steeped woods) ; A challenge hurled To all the singing world ! I, the mocking-bird, Am stirred With song's wild rapture ; and the prophet's mood Grows stronger in me with each freer breath Of balm-buds sweet as meth ; I am no singer rude ; Here, drink my melody, spiced with things as good As made the bragget that old Chaucer brewed. What cheer ! What cheer ! That is the cardinal grosbeak's way, With his sooty face and his coat so red ; Too shrill, too red, too loud and gay (Top-knotted like a jay's), Too crude for the critical eye and ear ! In a wild plum-thicket of Tennessee He flung a challenge out to me, And, as Marsyas, easily Beaten and flayed alive was he. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 69 Cheer ! cheer ! What cheer ! Oh, all the world shall be glad to hear ! And the nightingale Shall fail When I burst forth with my freedom song So rich and strong ! Oh! Ho! That's a brown thrush In the underbrush, Conceited, self-conscious, inclined to gush ; His is a' voice that will not wear ; Faulty timbre and volume weak, He wrings from his beak A spiral squeak That bores like a gimlet through the air ! And the catbird, too, With its feline mew, Is only fit for the springe and the snare ! Hike The shrike, Because, with a thorn for a guillotine, He does his work so well and clean. A critic keen — A practical bird, Whose common sense Must be immense, yo THROUGH THE YEAR For, tell me, who has ever heard Of such a thing As a loggerhead shrike that tried to sing ? Hear ! See ! Oh, see ! What do you think of me ? Do I sing by rote, Or by note ? Have I a parrot's echo-throat? Oh, no ! I caught my strains From Nature's freshest veins. Higher ! Higher ! I aspire To freedom's fullest note ; The vigor of waxing birdhood thrills my throat ; Morn's wide horizon, rimmed with fervid fire, Broadens my hope And sets far limitations to the scope Of my desire ! Cage me not ! Enrage me not ! Confine me to no purfled garden-plot : My song must grow, as grows the plant or tree, Out of the sun, and earth, and winds of liberty ! Upon no vast Dead past I turn my eyes ; But every budding moment's blossom I forecast WITH BIRDS AND POETS ;i And take each day's new melodies by surprise. I leap to meet fresh weather, And feel through every feather The first delicious foretaste of a change ; I test the range Of Nature's every franchise, every tether ! Dream on, O nightingale ! Old things shall fade and fail, And glory of the past shall not avail Against the Future, all-encompassing, Whose prophet and whose poet I would be, Whose promise and whose meaning I shall see, Whose fires shall flame in every note I sing ! Maurice Thompson. THE MOCKING-BIRD (at night) A golden pallor of voluptuous light Filled the warm southern night : The moon, clear-orbed, above the sylvan scene Moved like a stately queen, So rife with conscious beauty all the while, What could she do but smile At her own perfect loveliness below, Glassed in the tranquil flow Of crystal fountains and unruffled streams ? Half lost in waking dreams, As down the loneliest forest dell I strayed, Lo ! from a neighboring glade, >]2 THROUGH THE YEAR Flashed through the drifts of moonshine, swiftly came A fairy shape of flame. It rose in dazzling spirals overhead, Whence to wild sweetness wed, Poured marvellous melodies, silvery trill on trill; The very leaves grew still On the charmed trees to hearken ; while for me Heart-trilled to ecstasy, I followed — followed the bright shape that flew, Still circling up the blue, Till as a fountain that has reached its height, Falls back in sprays of light, Slowly dissolved, so that enrapturing lay, Divinely melts away Through tremulous spaces to a music mist, Soon by the fitful breeze How gently kissed Into remote and tender silences. Paul Hamilton Hayne. MOCKING-BIRD Once, Paumanok, When the snows had melted — when the lilac-scent was in the air, and the Fifth-month grass was growing, Up this seashore, in some briers, Two guests from Alabama, — two together, And their nest, and four light-green eggs, spotted with brown, And every day the he-bird, to and fro, near at hand, And every day the she-bird, crouch'd on her nest, silent, with bright eyes, WITH BIRDS AND POETS 7$ And every day I, a curious boy, never too close, never disturbing them, Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating. " Shine ! shine ! shine ! Pour down your warmth, great sun ! While we bask — we two together. " Two together ! Winds blow south, or winds blow north, Day come white, or night come black, Home, or rivers and mountains from home, Singing all time, minding no time, While we two keep together." Till, of a sudden, Maybe kill'd, unknown to her mate, One forenoon the she-bird crouch'd not on the nest, Nor return'd that afternoon, nor the next, Nor ever appear'd again. And thenceforward, all summer, in the sound of the sea, And at night, under the full of the moon, in calmer weather, Over the hoarse surging of the sea, Or flitting from brier to brier by day, I saw, I heard at intervals, the remaining one, the he- bird, The solitary guest from Alabama. 74 THROUGH THE YEAR "Blow! blow! blow! Blow up, sea- winds, along Paumanok's shore ! I wait and I wait, till you blow my mate to me." Yes, when the stars glisten'd All night long, on the prong of a moss-scallop'd stake, Down, almost amid the slapping waves, Sat the lone singer, wonderful, causing tears. He call'd on his mate ; He pour'd forth the meanings which I, of all men, know. Yes, my brother, I know ; The rest might not, — but I have treasur'd every note ; For once, and more than once, dimly, down to the beach gliding, Silent, avoiding the moonbeams, blending myself with the shadows, Recalling now the obscure shapes, the echoes, the sounds and sights after their sorts, The white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing, I with bare feet, a child, the wind wafting my hair, Listen'd long and long. Listen'd, to keep, to sing, — now translating the notes, Following you, my brother. " Soothe ! soothe ! soothe ! Close on its wave soothes the wave behind, WITH BIRDS AND POETS 75 And again another behind, embracing and lapping, every one close, But my love soothes not me, not me. " Low hangs the moon — it rose late ; Oh, it is lagging ! — Oh, I think it is heavy with love, with love ! " O madly the sea pushes, pushes upon the land, With love, — with love. " O night ! do I not see my love fluttering out there among the breakers ? What is that little black thing I see there in the white ? " Loud ! loud ! loud ! Loud I call to you, my love ! High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves ; Surely you must know who is here, is here ; You must know who I am, my love. " Low- hanging moon ! What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow? Oh, it is the shape, the shape of my mate ! O moon, do not keep her from me any longer. " Land ! land ! land ! Whichever way I turn, oh, I think you could give me my mate back again, if you only would ; For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look. y6 THROUGH THE YEAR " O rising stars ! Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will rise with some of you. " O throat ! O trembling throat ! Sound clearer through the atmosphere ! Pierce the woods, the earth ; Somewhere listening to catch you must be the one I want. " Shake out, carols ! Solitary here, the night's carols ! Carols of lonesome love ! Death's carols ! Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon ! Oh, under that moon, where she droops almost down into the sea ! O reckless, despairing carols ! " But soft ! sink low ; Soft ! let me just murmur ; And do you wait a moment, you husky-noised sea ; For somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding to me, So faint — I must be still, be still to listen ; But not altogether still, for then she might not come im- mediately to me. " Hither, my love ! Here I am ! Here ! With this just-sustain'd note I announce myself to you ; This gentle call is for you, my love, for you. WITH BIRDS AND POETS J J " Do not be decoy'd elsewhere ! That is the whistle of the wind — it is not my voice ; That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the spray ; Those are the shadows of leaves. " O darkness ! O in vain ! Oh, I am very sick and sorrowful ! " O brown halo in the sky, near the moon, drooping upon the sea ! O troubled reflection in the sea ! O throat ! O throbbing heart ! O all — and I singing uselessly, uselessly all the night. " Yet I murmur, murmur on ! O murmurs — you yourselves make me continue to sing, I know not why. " O past ! O life ! O songs of joy ! In the air — in the woods — over fields ; Loved ! loved ! loved ! loved ! loved ! But my love no more, no more with me ! We two together no more." Out of the Cradle endlessly Rocking. — Walt Whitman. 78 THROUGH THE YEAR THE MEADOW-LARK A patch of sunrise streaked with mist, True child of morn ; A sweet, spring day the meadow kissed, And thou wast born. A while we watch thy movement shy, Without a nest ; Dost make the rafters of the sky By night thy rest ? Did some one stumble in his lore Of dates unknown, That thou art here so long before The grass is grown? There is no insect on the wing, The ground is bare ; Yet thou, methinks to hear thee sing, With queens dost fare. Not till the grass begins to wave Art thou thy best ; When such thy sunny ways, I crave Thy yellow breast. Then with the dew upon thy throat, Thy notes impearled ; Thou droppest them afar, afloat, Down on the world. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 79 A secret doth to thee belong, Canst make reply? Thy home is on the ground, and song Is in the sky. Thus to my earnest questioning, The meadow-lark This tonic note to me did fling, How like a spark ! The high-winged spirits care-free are, Of lowly heart ; Their every thought, thus fledged a star, A gem of art. Ira Billman. THE MEADOW-LARK A brave little bird that fears not God, A voice that breaks from the snow-wet clod With prophecy of sunny sod, Set thick with wind- waved golden-rod. From the first bare clod in the raw, cold spring, From the last bare clod, when fall winds sting, The farm-boy hears his brave song ring, And work for the time is a pleasant thing. Hamlin Garland. By permission of the author. 8o THROUGH THE YEAR THE WAY THOU SINGEST Ah, I have heard a meadow-lark Sing o'er the growing corn In notes of passion and desire, At early primrose morn — So full and rich and sweet, My heart with rapture beat, And for remembered years Up sprang the tears . . . And here — and now — So singest thou ! When the Birds Go North. — Mrs. Ella HlGGlNSON. Permission of author. Copyright, 1898, by the Macmillan Company. TO THE MEADOW-LARK (alauda magna) Minstrel of melody, How shall I chaunt of thee, Floating in meadows athrill with thy song ? Fluting anear my feet, Plaintive, and wildly sweet, — O could thy spirit to mortal belong ! Tell me thy secret art, How thou dost touch the heart, Hinting of happiness still unpossessed? Say, doth thy bosom burn Vainly, as mine, and yearn Sadly for something that leaves it unblessed ? WITH BIRDS AND POETS 8 1 Doth not that tender tone, Over the clover blown, Flow from a sorrow — a longing in vain ? Or is it joy intense, So like a pang, the sense Hears in thy sweetest song something of pain ? Others may cleave the steeps, Soar, and in upper deeps Sing in the heaven's blue arches profound ; But thou most lowly thing, Teach me to keep my wing Close to the breast of our Mother, the ground ! Soon shall my fleeting lay Fade from the world away, — Thine, ever-during, shall thrill thro' the years -, Love, who once gladdened me, Surely hath saddened thee, — Half of thy music is made of his tears. Long may I list thy note Soft thro' the summer float Far o'er the fields where the wild grasses wave ; Then when my life is done, Oh, at the set of sun, Pour out thy spirit anear to my grave ! Lloyd Mifflin. Norwood, June, 1899. 82 THROUGH THE YEAR TO A LARK Sweet bird, whose warblings wild my ear delight, Whose shrill-ton'd melody I love to hear, If thou didst know that murd'rous man was near, How quickly wouldst thou shun his dang'rous sight ! But needless, beauteous bird, would be thy flight ; 'Tis true I wounded once a lark like thee ; Perchance the harmless captive was thy mate. To pine awhile in durance was his fate, But soon I set the little suff'rer free ; And nevermore will I thy race molest ; Then plume thy dappled pinions, reckless rear Thy taper neck, and show thy golden breast. I prize my freedom, nor is thine less dear. Then fearless rove and sing in native freedom blest. Samuel Low. TO A MIGRATING SEA-BIRD. As now thy solitary flight I faintly trace on high, — A speck, a mist that melts in light, Upon the sunset sky — Seen from that lone and dizzy height, The dwindled forest to thy sight Shows like a shrub ; the glen, Like one of all its many flowers ; Cities, like molehills ; peaks, like towers ; And sure, like emmets, men. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 83 High, higher still, till the gone sun Gleams on thy passing wing ; As now the shadows, deeply dun, Come down, I see thee spring : But thou the point hast reached, at last, Whence the sure path, by instinct traced, Thou clearly canst espy, To stream or lake, or reedy shore, Where haply thou hast built before, And heard thy ducklings cry. There choose thy mate and nurse thy brood \ Nor hawk nor man molest Thy quiet haunt, till, on some eve ' Like this, they quit their nest : By savage Cola's bleak recess, That to the hunter bars ingress, And suns of sultry beam ; Or, where the water-lily sleeps, Rustles the reed, the alder weeps, By Lena's lakes and streams. Lone bird ! a happy lot hast thou — An empire kings might envy — now Pitching thy reedy tent By summer cove or lake ; now high, In company with Liberty, A winged emigrant. 84 THROUGH THE YEAR A free, blithe wanderer of air, Of joy or grief thou tak'st no care, Save of the passing one ; The future, past, alike unspied, All memory would vainly hide, And fear as vainly shun. The graves, beneath thy roving wing, Of former mate or nurseling, bring No tear into thine eye ; But thy affections still, though they Their objects win, unwept decay, And unregretted die. George Hill. TO A SEA-BIRD Sauntering hither on listless wings, Careless vagabond of the sea, Little thou heedest the surf that sings, The bar that thunders, the shale that rings, — Give me to keep thy company. Little thou hast, old friend, that's new, Storms and wrecks are old things to thee ; Sick am I of these changes, too ; Little to care for, little to rue, — I on the shore, and thou on the sea. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 85 All of thy wanderings, far and near, Bring thee at last to shore and me ; All of my journeyings end them here, This our tether must be our cheer, — I on the shore, and thou on the sea. Lazily rocking on ocean's breast, Something in common, old friend, have we ; Thou on the shingle seek'st thy nest, I to the waters look for rest, — I on the shore, and thou on the sea. Bret Harte. THE SEA-BIRD Sea-bird ! haunter of the wave, Happy o'er its crest to hover ; Half-engulph'd where yawns the cave Billows form in rolling over. Sea-bird ! seeker of the storm, In its shriek thou dost rejoice ; Sending from thy bosom warm, Answer shriller than its voice. Bird of nervous wing and bright, Flashing silvery to the sun, Sporting with the sea-foam white, When will thy wild course be done ? 86 THROUGH THE YEAR Whither tends it? has the shore No alluring haunt for thee ? Nook with tangled vines run o'er, Scented shrub, or leafy tree ? Is the purple seaweed rarer Than the violet of spring? Is the snowy foam-wreath fairer Than the apple's blossoming? Shady grove and sunny slope, Seek but these, and thou shalt meet Birds not born with storm to cope, Hermits of retirement sweet. Where no winds too rudely swell, But, in whispers as they pass, Of the fragrant flow'ret tell, Hidden in the tender grass. There the mock-bird sings of love ; There the robin builds his nest ; There the gentle-hearted dove, Brooding, takes her blissful rest. Sea-bird ! stay thy rapid flight : — Gone ! — where dark waves foam and dash, Like a lone star on the night From afar his white wings flash ! WITH BIRDS AND POETS 87 He obeyeth God's behest : Each and all some mission fill ; Some the tempest born to breast, Some to worship and be still. If to struggle with the storm On life's ever-changing sea, Where cold mists enwrap the form, My harsh destiny must be, Sea-bird ! thus may I abide Cheerful the allotment given ; And above the ruffled tide Soar at last, like thee, to Heaven ! Anna Maria Wells. TO A WATERFOWL Whither, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way ? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along. Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side ? 88 THROUGH THE YEAR There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, — The desert and illimitable air, — Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near. And soon that toil shall end ; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend, Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart. He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone Will lead my steps aright. William Cullen Bryant. From Bryant's Poems, by permission of D. Appleton & Co. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 89 MIGRANTS Hello ! whom have we here, Under the orange-trees, Where the yellow convent wall Looks to the turquoise seas? In his jacket of olive green He slips from bough to bough, With a familiar air No venue could disavow. Good-day to you, quiet sir ! We have been friends before, When the lilacs were in bloom By the lovely Scituate shore. When the surly hordes of snow Came down on the trains of the wind, Two sojourners, it seems, Were of a single mind. Both from the storm and gray, The stress of the northern year, Seeking the peace of the world, Found tranquillity here. Here, where there is no haste, Lead we, each in his way, Undistracted a while, The slow sweet life of a day. 90 THROUGH THE YEAR Busy, contented, and shy, Through the green shade you go ; So unobtrusive and fair A mien few mortals know. It needs not the task be hard, Nor the achievement sublime, If only the soul be great, Free from the fever of time. And your glad being confirms The ancient Bonum est Nos hie esse of earth, With serene unanxious zest, Whether far North you fare, When too brief spring once more Visits the stone-walled fields Beside the Scituate shore, Or here in endless June, Under the orange-trees, Where the old convent wall Looks to the turquoise seas. Bliss Carman. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 91 OUT OF THE SOUTH A migrant song-bird I, Out of the blue, between the sea and the sky, Landward blown on bright, untiring wings ; Out of the South I fly, Urged by some vague, strange force of destiny, To where the young wheat springs, And the maize begins to grow, And the clover fields to blow. I have sought, In far wild groves below the tropic line, To lose old memories of this land of mine ; I have fought This vague, mysterious power that flings me forth Into the North ; But all in vain. When flutes of April blow The immemorial longing lures me, and I go. I go, I go, The sky above, the sea below, And I know not by what sense I keep my way, Slow winnowing the ether night and day ; Yet ever to the same green, fragrant maple grove, Where I shall swing and sing beside my love, Some irresistible impulse bears me on, Through starry dusks and rosy mists of dawn, And flames of noon and purple films of rain ; And the strain Of mighty winds hurled roaring back and forth, Between the caverns of the reeling earth, 92 THROUGH THE YEAR Cannot bewilder me. I know that I shall see, Just at the appointed time, the dogwood blow And hear the willows rustle and the mill-stream flow. The very bough that best Shall hold a perfect nest Now bursts its buds and spills its keen perfume ; And the violets are in bloom, Beside the boulder, lichen-grown and gray, Where I shall perch and pipe, Till the dewberries are ripe, And our brood has flown away, And the empty nest swings high Between the flowing tides of grass and the dreamy violet sky. I come, I come ! Bloom, O cherry, peach, and plum ! Bubble brook, and rustle corn and rye ! Falter not, O Nature, nor will I. Give me thy flower and fruit, And I'll blow for thee my flute ; I'll blow for thee my flute so sweet and clear, This year, Next year, And many and many a blooming coming year, Till this strange force No more aloft shall guide me in my course, High over weltering billows and dark woods Over Mississippi's looped and tangled floods WITH BIRDS AND POETS 93 Over the hills of Tennessee, And old Kentucky's greenery, In sun, in night, in clouds, and forth Out of the South, into the North, To the spot where first the ancestral nest was swung, Where first the ancestral song was sung, Whose shadowy strains still ravish me With immemorial melody. Maurice Thompson. THE CARDINAL-BIRD The Cardinal has come again ; He all the brake salutes ; His music floods the silent glen, Oh, hear him, how he flutes ! From tree to tree his scarlet glows ; Such beauty rare he brings, That all the richness of the rose Seems lavished on his wings ! Lloyd Mifflin. MAY Hither the busy birds shall flutter, With the light ii??iber for their nests, And, pausing from their labor, utter The morning sunshine in their breasts. On Planting a Tree at Inveraray. — JAMES Russell Lowell. Swallows over the water, Warblers over the land, Silvery, tinkling ripples Along the pebbly strand, Afar in the upper ether The eagle floats at rest ; No wind now frets the forest , ' Tis nature at her best. The golden haze of autumn Enwraps the bloom of May, — Fate grant me many another Such perfect su??i?ner day. Charles C. Abbott. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 97 MAY-DAY Why chidest thou the tardy spring? The hardy bunting does not chide ; The blackbirds make the maples ring With social cheer and jubilee ; The redwing flutes his o-ka-lee, The robins know the melting snow; The sparrow meek, prophetic-eyed, Her nest beside the snow-drift weaves ; Secure the osier yet will hide Her callow brood in mantling leaves ; And thou, by science all undone, Why only must thy reason fail To see the southing of the sun ? I know the trusty almanac Of the punctual coming-back, On their due days, of the birds. I marked them yestermorn, A flock of finches darting Beneath the crystal arch, Piping, as they flew, a march, Belike the one they used in parting Last year from yon oak or larch ; Dusky sparrows in a crowd, Diving, darting northward free, Suddenly betook them all, Every one to his hole in the wall, Or to his niche in the apple-tree. I greet with joy the choral trains Fresh from the palms and Cuba's canes. 98 THROUGH THE YEAR Best gems of Nature's cabinet, With dews of tropic morning wet, Beloved of children, bards, and spring O birds, your perfect virtues bring, Your song, your forms, your rhythmic flight, Your manners for the heart's delight, Nestle in hedge, or barn, or roof, Here weave your chamber weather-proof, Forgive our harms, and condescend To man, as to a lubber friend, And, generous, teach his awkward race Courage and probity and grace ! Ralph Waldo Emerson. NATURE'S INVITATION. When soft May breezes fan the early woods, And with her magic wand the blue-ey'd spring Quickens the swelling blossoms and the buds, Then forth the russet partridge leads her brood, While on the fallen tree-trunk drums her mate ; The quail her young in tangled thicket hides, The dun deer with their fawns the forests range, The wild-geese platoons hasten far in air ; The wild-ducks from their southern lagoons pass, And, soaring high, their northward journeyings take ; The dusky coot along the coast-line sweep ; The piping snipe and plover, that frequent The sandy bars and beaches, wing their flight, And all the grassy prairies of the West WITH BIRDS AND POETS 99 Teem with the speckled younglings of the grouse; And all the budding forests and the streams Are gay with beauty, joyous with young life. Then swell the first bird melodies : the wren Chirrups and perches on the garden rail \ The bluebird twitters on the lilac hedge, Or flits on azure wings from tree to tree ; The golden robin on the apple bough Hovers, where last year's withered nest had been ; The darting swallows circle o'er the roof; The woodpeckers on trunk of gnarled trees Tap their quick drum-beats with their horny beaks ; The crow caws hoarsely from the blasted pine \ High in mid-air the sailing hawk is pois'd, While from the grove the purple pigeon-flocks Burst with loud flapping o'er the grain-sown fields. Isaac McLellan. THE RUFFED GROUSE When the pallid sun has vanished Under Osceola's ledges, When the lengthening shadows mingle In a sombre sea of twilight, From the hemlocks in the hollow Swift emerging comes the partridge ; Not a sound betrays her starting, Not a sound betrays her lighting In the birches by the wayside, In her favored place for budding. Lore. IOO THROUGH THE YEAR When the twilight turns to darkness, When the fox's bark is sounding, From her buds the partridge hastens, Seeks the soft snow by the hazels, Burrows in its sheltering masses, Burrows where no owl can find her. Ah, how welcome is the springtime ! Then it is the stately partridge Spreads his ruff and mounts his rostrum, Gazes proudly round the thicket, Sounds his strange and muffled signal. First with slow and heavy measure, Then like eager, hurried heart-beats, Ending in a nervous flutter Faster than the ear can reckon. Midway in the May-month season, From her haughty, strutting master To the silence of the pine wood Steals the happy partridge mother, . Under cloak of yew and moosewood, Under brush and in the shadow, Seeks a hollow lined with mosses, Filled with leaves and sweet pine needles ; There her pale brown eggs she fondles, There in anxious silence watches, Stirs not, starts not, though dread danger Passes near her, crashes by her. WITH BIRDS AND POETS IOI Warm the leaves when chicks are hatching, Full the ground of dainty morsels, Broad the ferns to hide her darlings, Keen her ear to tell of danger. If perchance a man approaches, Nears her brood and notes her presence, Ah, how quickly does the mother Risk herself to save her nestlings ! Whining, moaning, near him crouching, Limping, fluttering, leading onward, While the chicks, with matchless cunning Craft inherited from ages, Under leaves, beneath broad mushrooms, Into stumps, or gaping ledges Crowd their downy, frightened bodies, Wait till danger long has vanished. Then with reassuring mewing Comes the mother back to call them, Nestle one by one beneath her, Soothe their fright and preen their plumage. Frank Bolles. RUFFED GROUSE; PARTRIDGE Where greenwood shadows shift and swim, As in cathedral arches dim, Casting a weird and solemn shade Thro* the primeval forest-glade, While here and there a sunny beam Thro' canopy and vault doth stream, 102 THROUGH THE YEAR Illuminating with its glow The checker' d turf that spreads below, — There the shy partridge loves to brood, Deep in the shelter of the wood. High soars a patriarchal oak, Its umbrage scath'd by lightning-stroke, Upon whose topmost bough doth dwell An eagle, monarch of the dell, O'erlooking from his eyrie grand The wide expanse of forest land ; Now rising high in air to sweep In circling rings the upper deep, Now pois'd and balanc'd in mid-space, As resting from his airy chase ; Now sweeping downward on its way As pirate bark swoops on its prey. Yonder a chestnut grove is seen Waving its royal flags of green ; A lovely spot, a cool retreat, Where shade and silence love to meet, But in the mellow autumn-time (When brisk October breezes chime, When fruits are ripe, and leaves are red), Vocal with music, loud with tread, For there the village children haste The chestnuts, brown and crisp, to taste, And there the partridge loves to bring Her young when evening folds its wing. In rocky regions, where the pine And spruce and hemlock intertwine, Forming an overhanging roof Against the rain and sunbeam proof, WITH BIRDS AND POETS 103 So dense that scarce a ray may pour Across the dark and russet floor, There doth the speckled partridge come In dim recess to make a home, To sound the drum or forth to lead The young, on berries ripe to feed, Prompt on affrighted wing to break When foes the tangled thickets shake. They love the lofty, breezy height, The hillside with its sunshine bright, The long, mountainous range of hills Where bubble forth the crystal rills, Where oak and laurel intertwine, And shakes its plumy crest the pine ; And there they love to lurk and feed On fallen mast and dropping seed ; And there the red luxurious fare Of melting strawberries they share, The partridge-berries' scarlet fruit, The blueberry's o'erladen shoot, And spicy bud and purple grape, Where vines the sunny hillside drape. When bleak November hoar-frosts creep Along the mountain-ranges steep, They speed before the rising gale To seek some warm, sequester' d vale, And there where stood the harvest sheaves They feed at will in morn and eves, Gleaning the grains so honey-sweet Of oat and barley, and buckwheat, Secure by day in tussocks green, At night in sombre evergreen. Isaac McLellan. 104 THROUGH THE YEAR THE XEST 1 MAY When oaken woods with buds are pink, And new-come birds each morning sing; When fickle May on Summer's brink Pauses, and knows not which to fling, Whether fresh bud and bloom again, Or hoar-frost silvering hill and plain, Then from the honeysuckle gray The oriole with experienced quest Twitches the fibrous bark away, The cordage of his hammock-nest, Cheering his labor with a note Rich as the orange of his throat. High o'er the loud and dusty road The soft gray cup in safety swings, To brim ere August with its load Of downy breasts and throbbing wings, O'er which the friendly elm-tree heaves An emerald roof with sculptured eaves. Below, the noisy World drags by In the old way, because it must, The bride with heartbreak in her eye, The mourner following hated dust : Thy duty, winged flame of Spring, Is but to love, and fly, and sing. 1 Part second will be found in its appropriate month, December. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 105 happy life, to soar and sway Above the life by mortals led, Singing the merry months away, Master, not slave of daily bread, And, when the Autumn comes, to flee Wherever sunshine beckons thee ! James Russell Lowell. NATURE'S EASTER MUSIC The flowers from the earth have arisen They are. singing their Easter-song ; Up the valleys and over the hillsides They come, an unnumbered throng. Oh, listen ! The wild flowers are singing Their beautiful songs without words ! They are pouring the soul of their music Through the voices of happy birds. Every flower to a bird has confided The joy of its blossoming birth — The wonders of its resurrection From its grave in the frozen earth. For you chirp the wren and the sparrow, Little Eyebright, Anemone pale ! Gay Columbine, orioles are chanting Your trumpet-note, loud on the gale. 106 THROUGH THE YEAR The buttercup's thanks for the sunshine The goldfinch's twitter reveals ; And the violet trills, through the bluebird, Of the heaven that within her she feels. The song- sparrow's exquisite warble Is born in the heart of the rose — Of the wild- rose, shut in its calyx, Afraid of belated snows. And the melody of the wood-thrush Floats up from the nameless and shy White blossoms that stay in the cloister Of pine-forests, dim and high. The dust of the roadside is vocal ; There is music from every clod ; Bird and breeze are the wild-flowers' angels, Their messages bearing to God. " We arise and we praise Him together ! " With a flutter of petals and wings, The anthem of spirits immortal Rings back from created things. And nothing is left wholly speechless ; For the dumbest life that we know May utter itself through another, And double its gladness so. Lucy Larcom. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 107 SPRING'S TORCH-BEARER Oriole — athlete of the air — Of fire and song a glowing core, From tropic wildernesses fair, Spring's favorite lampadephore, A hot flambeau on either wing Rimples as you pass me by ; 'Tis seeing flame to hear you sing, 'Tis hearing song to see you fly. Below the leaves in fragrant gloom, , Cool currents lead you to your goal, Where bursting jugs of rich perfume Down honeyed slopes of verdure roll. In eddies, round some hummock cold, Where violets weave their azure bredes, You flash a torch o'er rimy mould, And rouse the dormant balsam seeds. Upon the sassafras a flare, And through the elm a wavering sheen, A flicker in the orchard fair, A flame across the hedgerow green. Your voice and light are in my dream Of vanished youth, they warm my heart ; With every chirrup, every gleam, Sweet currents from old fountains start. 108 THROUGH THE YEAR I take me wings and fly with you, Once more the boy of long ago, O days of bloom ! O honey-dew ! Hark ! how the flutes of fairy blow ! You whisk wild splendors through the trees And send keen fervors down the wind, You singe the jackets of the bees, And trail an opal mist behind. When flowery hints fore say the berry, On spray of haw and tuft of brier, Then, wandering incendiary, You set the maple swamps afire ! Maurice Thompson. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 109 THE ORIOLE A flash of light and a whir of wings, A gleam of gold and a blush of red, And adown the gloom like a star it sped ; Adown the green and the trees atween, Like a feathery fire it swiftly fled, With an ebon back, and a golden throat, And a palpitant, pulsatile, passionate note, That out on the air like a bubble doth float Or a golden girl in a golden boat. A gorgeous creature, a globe of fire, A thing all splendor and love and light ; A robin begot in the rainbow bright Or the western skies when the sunset dyes The wings of the birds that pass in flight Through the ruby gates, and the portals wide, Till tipped with vermilion, and dipped in a tide Of purple and gold, they glimmer and glide Through the sky, as bright as a bloomy bride. An orange-musk in the twinkling dusk ; A topaz throbbing with golden fire ; Sweet music shaken from Heaven's lyre, And turned in the night to crimson bright, And gold like the yellow light of a pyre, — A glimmering, shimmering, beautiful thing, With a voice like a pearl in a simmering spring, A diamond flitting on glittering wing, That ever of Heaven doth heavenly sing. Julian E. Johnstone. IIO THROUGH THE YEAR THE ORIOLE Like a live flame wind-wafted from altars celestial Floats the blithe oriole through the bright air ; Dropping down as half won by spring's glories terrestrial. Buoyantly upward swift fleeting to fare. Like the light on a fount's rippling bosom that glances With the wavering pulse of its rhythmical flow, Now he rises, now falls ; or, as leaf blast-tossed dances, In whimsical mazes he sweeps to and fro. In the meadows beneath him the buttercups' chalices Gleam, beaten gold, in the glowing June sun ; The red clovers are fragrant as spikenard of palaces, Blue blooms the iris where topaz brooks run ; But oh, what so sweet, what so fair as his singing ! What so lucent, so mellow ! Oh, oriole dear, Thy notes down the mist-muffled Stygian meads ringing Even shadowless ghosts, hope-abandoned, might cheer. How the fervor of being, the zest of life glorious, Seethes in the lay like the spirit in wine As it foams in the cup of some hero victorious, Triumphing splendid at banquets divine. With what gurgling delight is his song brimming over ! With what infinite glee, like the laughter of Pan ! As the sunshine of June, the perfume of the clover, The caress of the west wind commingled and ran. WITH BIRDS AND POETS III How he sings with his flight, till the song-tide out-bub- bling Hardly less motion than melody seems ; In ecstasy ever his passion redoubling, Flinging his notes as the sun flings its beams ; Like the amber of honey from fragrant combs dripping Where the bees of Hymettus have made them brim o'er, Like the shower of gold 'round the polished limbs slip- ping, When the god unto Danae descended of yore. Jocund bird, might I join in the joy that thou utterest, Dear would life be, as it once was of old ; As of old might my heart leap as light as thou flutterest, Clovers be censers and buttercups gold. Like the day when love comes is the oriole's singing, When from fulness of bliss all the fond bosom aches ; Oh, sweet oriole, sing ! Drown the death-bell's dread ringing, For when love hears that clang, then the lonely heart breaks. Arlo Bates. THE BALTIMORE BIRD High on yon poplar, clad in glossiest green, The orange, black-capped Baltimore is seen ; The broad extended boughs still please him best ; Beneath their bending skirts he hangs his nest ; There his sweet mate, secure from every harm, Broods o'er her spotted store, and wraps them warm, — 112 THROUGH THE YEAR Lists to the noon-tide hum of busy bees, Her partner's mellow song, the brook, the breeze ; These day by day the lonely hours deceive, From dewy morn to slow descending eve. Two weeks elaps'd, behold ! a helpless crew Claim all her care, and her affection too ; On wings of love th' assiduous nurses fly, Flowers, leaves, and boughs, abundant food supply ; Glad chants their guardian, as abroad he goes, And waving breezes rock them to repose. Alexander Wilson. THE ORIOLE Hush ! 'tis he ! My oriole, my glance of summer fire, Is come at last, and, ever on the watch, Twitches the pack-thread I had lightly wound Around the bough to help his housekeeping, — Twitches and scouts by turns, blessing his luck, Yet fearing me who laid it in his way, Nor, more than wiser we in our affairs, Divines the Providence that hides and helps. Heave ho I Heave ho I he whistles as the twine Slackens its hold ; Once more now / and a flash Lightens across the sunlight to the elm Where his mate dangles at her cup of felt. Nor all his booty is the thread ; he trails My loosened thought with it along the air, And I must follow, would I ever find The inward rhyme to all this wealth of life. Under the Willows. — James Russell Lowell. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 113 THE BALTIMORE ORIOLE golden robin ! pipe again That happy, hopeful, cheering strain ! A prisoner in my chamber, I See neither grass, nor bough, nor sky ; Yet to my mind thy warblings bring, In troops, all images of Spring ; And every sense is satisfied By what thy magic has supplied. As by enchantment, now I see, On every bush and forest-tree, The tender, downy leaf appear, — The loveliest robe they wear. The tulip and the hyacinth grace The garden bed ; each grassy place, With dandelions glowing bright, Or king-cups, childhood's pure delight, Invite the passer-by to tread Upon the soft, elastic bed, And pluck again the simple flowers Which charmed so oft his younger hours. The apple orchards all in bloom, — 1 seem to smell their rare perfume. And thou, gay whistler ! to whose song These powers of magic art belong, On top of lofty elm I see Thy black and orange livery — Forgive that word ! A freeman bold, Of choice thou wearest jet and gold, 114 THROUGH THE YEAR And no man's livery dost bear, Thou flying tulip ! free as air ! Come, golden robin ! once again That magic, joy-inspiring strain ! Thomas Hill. THE SONG THE ORIOLE SINGS There is a bird that comes and sings In the Professor's garden-trees ; Upon the English oak he swings, And tilts and tosses in the breeze. I know his name, I know his note, That so with rapture takes my soul ; Like flame the gold beneath his throat, His glossy cope is black as coal. O oriole, it is the song You sang me from the cottonwood, Too young to feel that I was young, Too glad to guess if life were good. And while I hark, before my door, Adown the dusty Concord road, The blue Miami flows once more As by the cottonwood it flowed. And on the bank that rises steep, And pours a thousand tiny rills, From death and absence laugh and leap My school-mates to their flutter-mills. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 115 The blackbirds jangle in the tops Of hoary- antlered sycamores ; And timorous killdee starts and stops Among the driftwood on the shores. Below, the bridge — a noonday fear Of dust and shadow shot with sun — Stretches its gloom from pier to pier, Far unto alien coasts unknown. And on those alien coasts, above, Where silver ripples break the stream's Long blue, from some roof-sheltering grove A hidden parrot scolds and screams. Ah, nothing, nothing ! Commonest things : A touch, a glimpse, a sound, a breath — It is a song the oriole sings — And all the rest belongs to death. But oriole, my oriole, Were some bright seraph sent from bliss With songs of heaven to win my soul From simple memories such as this, What could he tell to tempt my ear From you? What high thing could there be So tenderly and sweetly dear As my lost boyhood is to me ? William D. Howells. Il6 THROUGH THE YEAR THE NIGHT-HAWK When frogs make merry the pools of May, And sweet, oh, sweet, Through the twilight dim Is the vesper hymn Their myriad mellow pipes repeat As the rose-dusk dies away, Then hark, the night-hawk ! (For now is the elfin hour.) With melting skies o'er him, All summer before him, His wild brown mate to adore him, By the spell of his power He summons the apples in flower. In the high, pale heaven he flits and calls ; Then swift, oh, swift, On sounding wing That hums like a string, To the quiet glades where the gnat-clouds drift And the night-moths nicker, he falls. Then hark, the night-hawk ! (For now is the elfin hour.) With melting skies o'er him, All summer before him, His wild brown mate to adore him, By the spell of his power He summons the apples in flower. Charles G. D. Roberts. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 1 17 WOOD-DUCK In May-time, when the lilac-plumes Droop from the branch their purple blooms ; When chestnuts clap their leafy hands, And every bud with joy expands ; When in the moist, sequester'd nooks Of woods is heard the call of brooks, The wood-duck builds its downy nest Secure from prowling schoolboy's quest. The swampy, shallow creeks they hauDt, Where thick woods o'er the waters slant, Whose interlacing branches make A, dusky evening in the brake ; And there their little nests are made In hollow mossy log decay' d, Or where the woodpecker had bored The crumbling bark to hide his hoard, Fast by the stream whose ripples beat The tree-roots of their close retreat. Most beauteous of all the race That skim the wave or soar in space, With plumage fairer than the rays The bird-of-paradise displays, A mottled purple gloss'd with green, All colors in the rainbow seen ; No tropic bird of Indian skies May rival thy imperial dyes. Least wary of all fowl that wing O'er salty bay or inland spring, Il8 THROUGH THE YEAR They haunt the pond whose reedy shore Extendeth by the farmer's door, Or rivulet whose waters trill Their melodies below the mill ; And here the ambush'd gunner lies To gather in his lovely prize. Isaac McLellan. THE OVEN-BIRD In the days of spring migrations, Days when warbler hosts move northward, To the forests, to the leaf beds, Comes the tiny oven builder. Daintily the leaves he tiptoes ; Underneath them builds his oven, Arched and framed with last year's oak-leaves, Roofed and walled against the raindrops. Hour by hour his voice he raises, Mingling with the red-eye's snatches, Answering to the hermit's anthem ; Rising, falling, like a wind breath. Strange, ventriloquous his music, Far away when close beside one ; Near at hand when seeming distant ; Weird, his plaintive accrescendo. Frank Bolles. Oven-Bird WITH BIRDS AND POETS 119 THE PEWEE The listening Dryads hushed the woods ; The boughs were thick, and thin and few The golden ribbons fluttering through ; Their sun-embroidered, leafy hoods The lindens lifted to the blue ; Only a little forest-brook The farthest hem of silence shook, When in the hollow shades I heard, — Was it a spirit, or a bird ? Or, strayed from Eden, desolate, Some Peri calling to her mate, Whom nevermore her mate would cheer ? " Pe-ri ! pe-ri ! peer ! " Through rocky clefts the brooklet fell With plashy pour, that scarce was sound, But only quiet less profound, A stillness fresh and audible ; A yellow leaflet to the ground Whirled noiselessly ; with wing of gloss A hovering sunbeam brushed the moss, And wavering brightly over it, Sat like a butterfly alit ; The owlet in his open door Stared roundly ; while the breezes bore The plaint to far-off places drear, " Pe-ree ! pe-ree ! peer ! " 120 THROUGH THE YEAR To trace it in its green retreat I sought among the boughs in vain, And followed still the wandering strain, So melancholy and so sweet The dim-eyed violets yearned with pain. 'Twas now a sorrow in the air, Some nymph's immortalized despair Haunting the woods and waterfalls ; And now, at long, sad intervals, Sitting unseen in dusky shade, His plaintive pipe some fairy played, With long-drawn cadence thin and clear, " Pe-wee ! pe-wee ! peer ! " Long-drawn and clear its closes were, — As if the hand of Music through The sombre robe of Silence drew A thread of golden gossamer ; So pure a flute the fairy blew. Like beggared princes of the wood, In silver rags the birches stood ; The hemlocks, lordly counsellors, Were dumb ; the sturdy servitors, In beechen jackets patched and gray, Seemed waiting spellbound all the day That low, entrancing note to hear, — " Pe-wee ! pe-wee ! peer ! " WITH BIRDS AND POETS 121 I quit the search, and sat me down Beside the brook, irresolute, And watched a little bird in suit Of sober olive, soft and brown, Perched in the maple-branches, mute : With greenish gold its vest was fringed, Its tiny cap was ebon-tinged, With ivory pale its wings were barred, And its dark eyes were tender-starred. " Dear bird," I said, "what is thy name? " And thrice the mournful answer came, So faint and far, and yet so near, — "Pe-wee ! pe-wee ! peer ! " For so I found my forest bird, — The pewee of the loneliest woods, Sole singer in these solitudes, Which never robin's whistle stirred, Where never bluebird's plume intrudes. Quick darting through the dewy morn, The redstart trilled his twittering horn, And vanished in thick boughs ; at even, Like liquid pearls fresh showered from heaven, The high notes of the lone wood-thrush Fall on the forest's holy hush : But thou all day complainest here, — "Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!" 122 THROUGH THE YEAR Hast thou, too, in thy little breast, Strange longings for a happier lot, — For love, for life, thou know'st not what, — A yearning, and a vague unrest, For something still which thou hast not ? Thou soul of some benighted child That perished, crying in the wild ! Or lost, forlorn, and wandering maid, By love allured, by love betrayed, Whose spirit with her latest sigh Arose, a little winged cry, Above her chill and mossy bier ! " Dear me ! dear me ! dear ! " Ah, no such piercing sorrow mars The pewee's life of cheerful ease ! He sings, or leaves his song to seize An insect sporting in the bars Of mild bright light that gild the trees. A very poet he ! For him All pleasant places still and dim ; His heart, a spark of heavenly fire, Burns with undying, sweet desire ; And so he sings ; and so his song, Though heard not by the hurrying throng, Is solace to the pensive ear : " Pewee ! pewee ! peer ! " J. T. Trowbridge. WITH BTRDS AND POETS 1 23 THE GREAT CRESTED FLY-CATCHER Late in May he makes his nesting, Seeks a deep and darksome hollow In the orchard's oldest tree-trunk ; Lines it well with matted cow's hair, Grasses, feathers, bits of wasps' nests, Slender roots, or silky fibres, Here and there a scrap of paper, Shred of bark, or seed of thistle. Odder things than these he uses, — Things for something else than comfort ; Sometimes to the general tangle He will add a tail of chipmunk, Sometimes fish scales, iridescent, Mingle in the mystic chaos, But his chiefly favored fetich Is a piece of cast-off snake skin. In this ill-assorted rubbish Four or five strange eggs are hidden ; They are tinted like the matted Leaves and grasses, hair and feathers ; From their larger end descending Countless slender rays or streakings Seek the point, while in beginning They are blended in a tangle. 124 THROUGH THE YEAR What can be the explanation Of this bird's persistent fancy? Why through countless generations Have they sought for cast-off snake skins To adorn or guard their nestings In the hollow of the tree-trunks ? Do the mouse, the snake, and squirrel Fear a scrap of harmless snake skin ? Wild and wary is this tyrant, Harsh his screaming, angry whistle, Strange his comings and his goings, Strange his likings and his hatings ; Round about Chocorua water He has found the haunts he fancies, But in many another valley None have ever heard his clamor. He is one that shuns the winter Knows no home where snowflakes nutter. Insect wings proclaim his coming, Insect death foretells his going, With the arbutus he enters, With the goldenrod he passes, Hither from the south in Maytime, Thither with the equinoctial. Frank Bolles. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 1 25 THE MARYLAND YELLOW-THROAT While May bedecks the naked trees With tassels and embroideries, And many blue-eyed violets beam Along the edges of the stream, I hear a voice that seems to say, Now near at hand, now far away, " Witchery — witchery — witchery ! " An incantation so serene, So innocent, befits the scene : There's magic in that small bird's note — See, there he flits — the Yellow-throat ; - A living sunbeam, tipped with wings, A spark of light that shines and sings, " Witchery — witchery — witchery ! " You prophet with a pleasant name, If out of Mary-land you came, You know the way that thither goes Where Mary's lovely garden grows : Fly swiftly back to her, I pray, And try to call her down this way, " Witchery — witchery — witchery ! " Tell her to leave her cockle-shells, And all her little silver bells That blossom into melody, And all iier maids less fair than she. She does not need these pretty things, For everywhere she comes, she brings " Witchery — witchery — witchery / " 126 THROUGH THE YEAR The woods are greening overhead, And flowers adorn each mossy bed ; The waters babble as they run — One thing is lacking, only one : If Mary were but here to-day, I would believe your charming lay, " Witchery — witchery — witchery / n Along the shady road I look — Who's coming now across the brook? A woodland maid, all robed in white — The leaves dance round her with delight, The stream laughs out beneath her feet — Sing, merry bird, the charm's complete, " Witchery — witchery — witchery ! " Henry van Dyke. From "The Builders and other Poems." Copyright, 1897, by Charles Scribner's Sons. THE NOTES OF THE BIRDS Well do I love those various harmonies That ring so gayly in Spring's budding woods, And in the thickets, and green, quiet haunts, And lonely copses of the Summer-time, And in red Autumn's ancient solitudes. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 1 27 If thou art pained with the World's noisy stir, Or crazed with its mad tumults, and weighed down With any of the ills of human life ; If thou art sick and weak, or mournest at the loss Of brethren gone to that far-distant land To which we all do pass, gentle and poor, The gayest and the gravest, all alike, — Then turn into the peaceful woods, and hear The thrilling music of the forest birds. How rich the varied choir ! The unquiet finch Calls from the distant hollows, and the wren Uttereth her sweet and mellow plaint at times, And the thrush mourneth where the kalmia hangs Its crimson-spotted cups, or chirps half hid Amid the lowly dog-wood's snowy flowers, And the blue jay flits by, from tree to tree, And, spreading its rich pinions, fills the ear With its shrill-sounding and unsteady cry. With the sweet airs of Spring the robin comes ; And in her simple song there seems to gush A strain of sorrow when she visiteth Her last year's withered nest. But when the gloom Of the deep twilight falls, she takes her perch Upon the red-stemmed hazel's slender twig That overhangs the brook, and suits her song To the slow rivulet's inconstant chime. 128 THROUGH THE YEAR In the last days of Autumn, when the corn Lies sweet and yellow in the harvest field And the gay company of reapers bind The bearded wheat in sheaves ; then peals abroad The blackbird's merry chant. I love to hear, Bold plunderer ! thy mellow burst of song Float from thy watch-place on the mossy tree Close at the corn-field edge. Lone whip-poor-will ! There is much sweetness in thy fitful hymn, Heard in the drowsy watches of the night. Ofttimes, when all the village lights are out, And the wide air is still, I hear thee chant Thy hollow dirge, like some recluse who takes His lodging in the wilderness of woods, And lifts his anthem when the world is still : And the dim, solemn night, that brings to man And to the herds, deep slumbers, and sweet dews To the red roses and the herbs, doth find No eye, save thine, a watcher in her halls. I hear thee oft at midnight, when the thrush And the green, roving linnet are at rest, And the blithe, twittering swallows have long ceased Their noisy note, and folded up their wings. Far up some brook's still course, whose current mines The forest's blackened roots, and whose green marge Is seldom visited by human foot, The lonely heron sits, and harshly breaks WITH BIRDS AND POETS 129 The Sabbath silence of the Wilderness ; And you may find her by some reedy pool, Or brooding gloomily on the time-stained rock Beside some misty and far-reaching lake. Most awful is thy deep and heavy boom, Gray watcher of the waters ! thou art king Of the blue lake ; and all the winged kind Do fear the echo of thine angry cry. How bright thy savage eye ! Thou lookest down And seest the shining fishes as they glide ; And, poising thy gray wing, thy glossy beak Swift as an arrow strikes its roving prey. Ofttimes I see thee, through the curling mist, Dart, like a Spectre of the night, and hear Thy strange, bewildering call, like the wild scream Of one whose life is perishing in the sea. And now, wouldst thou, O man ! delight the ear With earth's delicious sounds, or charm the eye With beautiful creations ? Then pass forth And find them midst those many-colored birds That fill the glowing woods. The richest hues Lie in their splendid plumage, and their tones Are sweeter than the music of the lute, Or the harp's melody, or the notes that gush So thrillingly from beauty's ruby lip. Isaac McLellan. 130 THROUGH THE YEAR THE HERALD CRANE Ah ! say you so, bold sailor In the sun-lit deeps of sky ! Dost thou so soon the seed-time tell In thy imperial cry, As circling in yon shoreless sea Thine unseen form goes drifting by? I cannot trace in the noon-day glare Thy regal flight, O crane ! From the leaping might of the fiery light Mine eyes recoil in pain, But on mine ear, thine echoing cry Falls like a bugle strain. The mellow soil glows beneath my feet, Where lies the buried grain ; The warm light floods the length and breadth Of the vast, dim, shimmering plain, Throbbing with heat and the nameless thrill Of the birth-time's restless pain. On weary wing, plebeian geese Push on their arrowy line Straight into the north, or snowy brant In dazzling sunshine, gloom and shine ; But thou, O crane, save for thy sovereign cry, At thy majestic height, On proud, extended wings sweep'st on In lonely, easeful flight. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 13 1 Then cry, thou martial-throated herald ! Cry to the sun, and sweep And swing along thy mateless, tireless course Above the clouds that sleep Afloat on lazy air — cry on ! Send down Thy trumpet note — it seems The voice of hope and dauntless will, And breaks the spell of dreams, Hamlin Garland. THE BLUE HERON Where water-grass grows overgreen On damp, cool flats by gentle streams, Still as a ghost and sad of mien, With half-closed eyes the heron dreams. Above him in the sycamore The flicker beats a dull tattoo ; Through pawpaw groves the soft airs pour Gold dust of blooms and fragrance new. And from the thorn it loves so well, The oriole flings out its strong, Sharp lay, wrought in the crucible Of its flame-circled soul of song. The heron nods. The charming runes Of Nature's music thrill his dreams ; The joys of many Mays and Junes Wash past him like cool summer streams. 132 THROUGH THE YEAR What tranquil life, what joyful rest, To feel the touch of fragrant grass, And doze like him, while tenderest Dream-waves across my sleep would pass ! Maurice Thompson. THE KINGFISHER He laughs by the summer stream Where the lilies nod and dream, As through the sheen of water cool and clear He sees the chub and sunfish cutting sheer. His are resplendent eyes ; His mien is kingliwise ; And down the May wind rides he like a king, With more than royal purple on his wing. His palace is the brake Where the rushes shine and shake ; His music is the murmur of the stream, And that leaf-rustle where the lilies dream. Such life as his would be A more than heaven to me : All sun, all bloom, all happy weather, All joys bound in a sheaf together. No wonder he laughs so loud ! No wonder he looks so proud ! There are great kings would give their royalty To have one day of his felicity ! Maurice Thompson. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 1 33 THE KINGFISHER Hark ! What sound disturbs the stillness Of the forest, of the meadow ? Harsh the notes, a wild alarum, Waking echoes from the ledges, Mocking laughter from the hemlocks. Hark ! It nearer comes and rattles, < Like the hail upon the grape leaves, Like cold rain upon the cornfield. From the clear Chocorua water Slowly slips the wasting ice-sheet. In the space reclaimed from winter Pale blue skies are seen reflected, And the sleeping lion's profile From among them gleams majestic. See, reflections calm are broken, Waves arise and lap the ice-sheet, And again the wild alarum Echoes from the gloomy hemlocks. From the agitated water, Like a fragment of the picture Of the April sky just broken, Rises swiftly towards the forest He who makes this clamorous discord, He who broke the calm reflection, Tyrant of the sleeping waters, Terror of their finny dwellers. 134 THROUGH THE YEAR Thus he comes with melting ice-sheets, Comes with challenge and with bluster, Flashing like a feathered arrow Through the gleaming sun of Easter, Searching for the schools of minnows In the shallows, on the sand-bars, Calling out his wild defiance To the forest, to the mountain. Weeks roll by, and May-time lingers, Full of music, full of perfume. Over eddying Bearcamp water Myriad swallows glide and twitter. Golden sand-banks flank the river ; Riddled are they, like a frigate Wrecked by cruel grape and shrapnel, Riddled by the swallows' borings. Flash ! a jet of white and azure Leaves the sand-bank, clips the water, Rises to a blasted maple, Drooping o'er the Bearcamp eddies. Hark ! again the forest quivers To the harsh and jarring challenge, And again the fish are startled By this plunge beneath the waters. In the sand-bank, near the turf line, Is a larger, deeper boring Than the borings of the swallows. Here the king's proud fisher lodges, WITH BIRDS AND POETS 135 Lodges on a heap of fishbones, Lodges in the deepest darkness, Lays her seven snow-white treasures, Fondles them and gives them being. Frank Bolles. THE KINGFISHER Where the river winds through its green retreat, Smiling, rejoicing on its way, Whose ripples and rifles ever beat The old tree-roots and boulders gray ; Where o'er the sedges' shallows and sands The cat-tail tufts and river reeds, At whose edge the patient angler stands, The kingfisher flies and feeds. Perch'd on a bending, wither'd spray That leans o'er the water's flow, He watches intently for the prey That swims in the stream below. Patiently, motionless, long he sits Like sentry on the castle height ; Unharm'd the insect by him flits, The bee and the butterfly bright, For his dainty food is the finny race, The minnows below that swim, The silver shiners, the roach and dace, The trout o'er the surface that skim. 136 THROUGH THE YEAR Lovely and spangled with all the dyes That melt in the sunset skies, Wings bright as the peacock's plumes, Or humming-bird's mottled blooms, With long bill like that of water-crane, And crown of dusky greenish stain, No lovelier robber infests the streams, Where water runs or fish school gleams. Where'er sea-beaches far expand, By shingle-banks and stretch of sand ; Where'er o'erleaning woodlands shade The clear brook twinkling thro' the glade, O bird rapacious ! is thy haunt, On trees that o'er the currents slant. Pois'd in mid-air like osprey white That o'er sea borders takes its flight, It balances its spotted wings, Then downward like an arrow springs, Impaling with its pointed bill The shiny fish of pond and rill. The silent angler, as he glides Along the river's rushing tides, Hears oft thy sharp, discordant cry, As your gay pinions flutter by ; But ne'er molests thy sudden dash, Thy downward plunge, like sunbeam flash. But the boy gunner's cruel eyes Mark thy bright plumage for his prize, In ambush takes his deadly aim, And slays thee, his resplendent game ! Isaac McLellan. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 1 37 THE BIRDS Then flash the wings returning summer calls Through the deep arches of her forest halls : The bluebird, breathing from his azure plumes The fragrance borrowed where the myrtle blooms ; The thrush, poor wanderer, dropping meekly down, Clad in his remnant of autumnal brown ; The oriole, drifting like a flake of fire Rent like a whirlwind from a blazing spire. The robin, jerking his spasmodic throat, Repeats, imperious, his staccato note ; The crack-brained bobolink courts his crazy mate, Poised on a bulrush tipsy with his weight ; Nay, in his cage the lone canary sings, Feels the soft air, and spreads his idle wings. Spring. — Oliver Wendell Holmes. BOB WHITE "I own the country hereabout," says Bob White; "At early morn I gayly shout, I'm Bob White ! From stubble field and stake-rail fence You hear me call, without offence, I'm Bob White ! Bob White ! Sometimes I think I'll ne'er more say, Bob White ; It often gives me quite away, does Bob White ; And mate and I, and our young brood, When separate, wandering through the wood, Are killed by sportsmen I invite By my clear voice — Bob White ! Bob White ! Still, don't you find I'm out of sight While I am saying Bob White, Bob White?" Charles C. Marble. 138 THROUGH THE YEAR BOB WHITE When the sun's gold spears were falling On the new-made morn, Did I hear a clear voice calling, Calling from the corn? Did I hear it — dream, or hear it? Was I distant, was I near it ? Was it mortal, was it sprite, Calling : " White — Bob White ? Bob — Bob White — Bob White 11 ? Ah, I hear it, and I see it Sitting on the rail, Is it real, can it be it, My old friend the quail? Out of season, out of cover, Turned a migrant, turned a rover, Sitting boldly in my sight, Calling : " White — Bob White / Bob — Bob White — Bob White" ? Not at hand, my gun and setter ; Left at rest till fall. Out of service, and it's better — Better, after all. He has changed his covey habits, In the rag-weeds with the rabbits, And the manner of his flight, And he calls : " Bob White i Bob — Bob White — Bob Whiter WITH BIRDS AND POETS 139 But it's he of mottled hackles, On the field-fence rail, Out of covey, out of shackles, It's the same old quail. These are not the sounds he whistles 'Mid the briers and the thistles, In the autumn's yellow blight — No, not : " White — Bob White ! Bob White!" Henry T. Stanton. By permission of the Century Company. SUMMER And the lark went palpitating Up through the glorious skies, His song spilled down from the blue profound As a song from Paradise. The catbird piped in the hazel, And the harsh kingfisher screamed, And the crane, in amber and oozy swirls, Dozed in the reeds and dreamed. From out far depths of the forest, Ineffably sad and lorn, Like the yearning cry of a long- lost love, The moan of the dove was borne. And through lush glooms of the thicket The flash of the redbird's wings On branches of star-white blooms that shook And thrilled with its twitterings. Through mossy and viny vistas Soaked ever with deepest shade, Dimly the dull ozvl stared and stared From his bosky ambuscade. And up through the rifled tree-tops That signalled the wayward breeze I saw the hulk of the hawk becalmed Far out on the azure seas. A Vision of Summer. —James Whitcomb Riley. 142 JUNE In June, on yonder wooded hill, go sit Beneath the leafy trees, where, overhead, The brown thrush, playful, taunts the farmer's toil ; The catbird sings his ever varied lay ; While from the elm, amid the neighboring mead, The oriole his clear, bold whistle sounds ; And, from the mead itself, the bobolink fours His liquid prelude and his saucy song. In all this flood of melody one sound Will ever fill thine ear, — the name of God. Hymn of the Seasons. — Thomas Hill. Listen ! the choir is singing; all the birds, In leafy galleries beneath the eaves, Are singing ! Listen, ere the sound be fled, And learn there may be worship without words. My Cathedral. — HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. June overhead ! All the birds know it, for swift they have sped Northward, and now they are singing like mad ; June is full-tide for them, June makes them glad. Hark, the bright choruses greeti?ig the day — Sorrow away ! June.— Richard Burton. 144 WITH BIRDS AND POETS 1 45 BIRDS IN JUNE The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun With the deluge of summer it receives ; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings ; He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, - In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best ? The Vision of Sir Launfal.— James Russell Lowell. And every little bird upon the tree, Ruffling his plumage bright, for ecstasy Sang in the wild insanity of glee ; And seemed in the same lays, Calling his mate, and uttering songs of praise. Field Preaching. — Phoebe Cary. ROBERT OF LINCOLN Merrily swinging on brier and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink ; Snug and safe is that nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers. Chee, chee, chee. 146 THROUGH THE YEAR Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, Wearing a bright black wedding-coat ; White are his shoulders and white his crest. Hear him call his merry note : Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Look, what a nice new coat is mine ; Sure there was never a bird so fine. Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Brood, kind creature ; you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here. Chee, chee, chee. Modest and shy as a nun is she, One weak chirp is her only note, Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat : Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Never was I afraid of man ; Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. Chee, chee, chee. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 1 47 Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight ! There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might : Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nice good wife that never goes out, Keeping house while I frolic about. Chee, chee, chee. Soon as the little ones chip the shell Six wide mouths are open for food ; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seed for the hungry brood. Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink ; This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me. Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work, and silent with care ; Off is his holiday garment laid, Half forgotten that merry air, Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nobody knows but my mate and I Where our nest and our nestlings lie. Chee, chee, chee. 148 THROUGH THE YEAR Summer wanes ; the children are grown ; Fun and frolic no more he knows ; Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone ; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes : Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again. Chee, chee, chee. William Cullen Bryant. From Bryant's Poems, by permission of D. Appleton & Co. THE O'LINCON FAMILY A flock of merry singing-birds were sporting in the grove ; Some were warbling cheerily and some were making love. There were Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winterseeble, Conquedle, — A livelier set were never led by tabor, pipe, or fiddle, — Crying, " Phew, shew, Wadolincon ; see, see Bobolincon Down among the tickle-tops, hiding in the buttercups ; I know the saucy chap ; I see his shining cap Bobbing in the clover there, — see, see, see ! " Up flies Bobolincon, perching on an apple-tree ; Startled by his rival's song, quickened by his raillery. Soon he spies the rogue afloat, curvetting in the air, And merrily he turns about and warns him to beware ! " 'Tis you that would a wooing go, down among the rushes O! Wait a week, till flowers are cheery ; wait a week, and, ere you marry, Be sure of a house wherein to tarry ; Wadolink, Whiskodink, Tom Denny, wait, wait, wait !" WITH BIRDS AND POETS 149 Every one's a funny fellow ; every one's a little mellow ; Follow, follow, follow, follow, o'er the hill and in the hollow. Merrily, merrily, there they hie ; now they rise and now they fly ; They cross and turn, and in and out, and down the mid- dle and wheel about, With a " Phew, shew, Wadolincon ; listen to me, Bobo- lincon ! Happy's the wooing that's speedily doing, that's speedily doing, That's merry and over with the bloom of the clover ; Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winterseeble, follow, follow me!" O what a happy life they lead, over the hill and in the mead ! How they sing, and how they play ! See, they fly away, away ! Now they gambol o'er the clearing, — off again, and then appearing ; Poised aloft on quivering wing, now they soar, and now they sing, " We must all be merry and moving ; we must all be happy and loving ; For when the midsummer is come, and the grain has ripened its ear, The haymakers scatter our young, and we mourn for the rest of the year ; Then, Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winterseeble, haste, haste away ! " A Year with the Birds. — WILSON FlAGG. Published by the Educational Publishing Company. 150 THROUGH THE YEAR THE BOB-O-LINKUM Thou vocal sprite — thou feather' d troubadour ! In pilgrim weeds through many a clime a ranger, Com'st thou to doff thy russet suit once more And play in foppish trim the masquing stranger ? Philosophers may teach thy whereabouts and nature ; But wise, as all of us, perforce, must think 'em, The school-boy best hath fixed thy nomenclature, And poets, too, must call thee Bob-o-Linkum. Say, art thou, long 'mid forest glooms benighted, So glad to skim our laughing meadows over — With our gay orchards here so much delighted, It makes thee musical, thou airy rover ? Or are those buoyant notes the pilfer'd treasure Of fairy isles, which thou hast learn'd to ravish Of all their sweetest minstrelsy at pleasure, And, Ariel-like, again on men to lavish? They tell sad stories of thy madcap freaks Wherever o'er the land thy pathway ranges ; And even in a brace of wandering weeks, They say, alike thy song and plumage changes ; Here both are gay ; and when the buds put forth, And leafy June is shading rock and river, Thou art unmatch'd, blithe warbler of the North, While through the balmy air thy clear notes quiver. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 151 Joyous, yet tender — was that gush of song Caught from the brooks, where 'mid its wild flowers smiling The silent prairie listens all day long, The only captive to such sweet beguiling ? Or didst thou, flitting through the verdurous halls And column'd isles of western groves symphonious, Learn from the tuneful woods, rare madrigals, To make our flowering pastures here harmonious? Caught'st thou thy carol from Ottawa maid, Where, through the liquid fields of wild-rice plashing, Brushing the ears from off the burdened blade, Her birch canoe o'er some lone lake is flashing? Or did the reeds of some Savannah South Detain thee while thy Northern flight pursuing, To place those melodies in thy sweet mouth, The spice-fed winds had taught them in their wooing ? Unthrifty prodigal ! is no thought of ill Thy ceaseless roundelay disturbing ever? Or doth each pulse in choiring cadence still Throb on in music till at rest forever ? Yet now in wilder'd maze of concord floating, 'Twould seem that glorious hymning to prolong, Old Time in hearing thee might fall a-doting, And pause to listen to thy rapturous song ! Charles Fenno Hoffman. 152 THROUGH THE YEAR THE BOBOLINK Hark to the bobolink, beautiful bobolink, Singing a syrupy song of the south, Singing a song of the tulips and petals pink, Sweet as a maiden and ripe as her mouth ! Listen, O beautiful ! list to the bobolink ! Singing a song of the cinnamon-tree : Hark, O meadow-lark ! hearken, O meadow-wink ! Why do not you sing as gayly as he ? Honey-sweet, honey-sweet, list to the bobolink Pouring his soul out like muscadel wine. Meadow-sweet, meadow-sweet, hark to the bobolink, Is he not luscious, delicious, divine ? Beautiful bobolink, silver-tongued bobolink, Citron and cinnamon sweeten thy song ! Breathing of musk and vanilla, O bobolink, Sing to me, sing to me all the day long ! Bobolink, bobolink, light-hearted bobolink, Thou art the Paradise Bird of the West ! Linnet and lark, thou art both of them, bobolink, Surely in Heaven thou makest thy nest ! Julian E. Johnstone. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 1 53 THE BOBOLINK Bobolink ! that in the meadow, Or beneath the orchard's shadow, Keepest up a constant rattle, Joyous as my children's prattle ; — Welcome to the north again ! Welcome to mine ear thy strain, Welcome to mine eye the sight Of thy black, thy buff, and white. Brighter plumes may greet the sun By the banks of Amazon ; Sweeter tones may weave the spell Of enchanting Philomel \ But the tropic bird would fail, And the English nightingale, If we should compare their worth With thine endless, gushing mirth. When the Ides of May are past, June and summer nearing fast, While from depths of blue above Comes the mighty breath of love, Calling out each bud and flower With resistless, secret power, — Waking hope and fond desire, Kindling the erotic fire ; — Filling youths' and maidens' dreams With mysterious, pleasing themes ; — Then, amid the sunlight clear Floating in the fragrant air, Thou dost fill each heart with pleasure By thy glad, ecstatic measure. 154 THROUGH THE YEAR A single note so sweet and low, Like a full heart's overflow, Forms the prelude : but the strain Gives us no such tone again, For the wild and saucy song Leaps and skips the notes among, In such quick and sportive play, Ne'er was madder, merrier lay. Gayest songster of the spring ! Thy melodies before me bring Visions of some dream-built land, Where, by constant zephyrs fanned, I might walk the livelong day Embosomed in perpetual May. Nor care nor fear thy bosom knows ; For thee a tempest never blows ; But, when our Northern summer's o'er, By Delaware's or Schuylkill's shore The wild-rice lifts its airy head, And royal feasts for thee are spread. And when the winter threatens there, Thy tireless wings yet own no fear, But bear thee to more Southern coasts, Far beyond the reach of frosts. Bobolink ! still may thy gladness Take from me all taint of sadness ; Fill my soul with trust unshaken In that Being who has taken Care for every living thing, In summer, winter, fall, and spring. Thomas Hill. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 1 55 THE BOBOLINKS When Nature had made all her birds, With no more cares to think on, She gave a rippling laugh — and out There flew a bobolinkon. She laughed again, — out flew a mate, A breeze of Eden bore them Across the fields of Paradise, The sunshine reddening o'er them. Incarnate sport and holiday, They flew and sang forever ; Their souls through June were all in tune, Their wings were weary never. The blithest song of breezy farms, Quaintest of field- note flavors, Exhaustless fount of trembling trills And demi-semiquavers. Their tribe, still drunk with air and light And perfume of the meadow, Go reeling up and down the sky In sunshine and in shadow. One springs from out the dew- wet grass, Another follows after ; The morn is thrilling with their songs And peals of fairy laughter. I56 THROUGH THE YEAR; From out the marshes and the brook They set the tall reeds swinging, And meet and frolic in the air, Half prattling and half singing. When morning winds sweep meadow-lands In green and russet billows, And toss the lonely elm-tree boughs, And silver all the willows, I see you buffeting the breeze Or with its motion swaying, Your notes half-drowned against the wind Or down the current playing. When far away o'er grassy flats, Where the thick wood commences, The white- sleeved mowers look like specks Beyond the zigzag fences, And noon is hot, and barn-roofs gleam White in the pale-blue distance, I hear the saucy minstrel still In chattering persistence. When Eve her domes of opal fire Piles round the blue horizon, Or thunder rolls from hill to hill A Kyrie Eleison, — WITH BIRDS AND POETS 1 57 Still, merriest of the merry birds, Your sparkle is unfading, — Pied harlequins of June, no end Of song and masquerading. What cadences of bubbling mirth Too quick for bar or rhythm ! What ecstasies, too full to keep Coherent measure with them 1 O could I share, without champagne Or muscadel, your frolic, The glad delirium of your joy, Your fun un-apostolic, Your drunken jargon through the fields Your bobolinkish gabble, Your fine anacreontic glee, Your tipsy reveller's babble ! Nay, — let me not profane such joy With similes of folly, — No wine of earth could waken songs So delicately jolly ! O boundless self-contentment voiced In flying air-born bubbles ! O joy that mocks our sad unrest, And drowns our earth-born troubles ! 158 THROUGH THE YEAR Hope springs with you : I dread no more Despondency and dulness ; For Good Supreme can never fail That gives such perfect fulness. The Life that floods the happy fields With song and light and color Will shape our lives to richer states, And heap our measures fuller. Christopher P. Cranch. BOBOLINK From blossom-clouded orchards, far away The bobolink tinkled. Under the Willows. — James Russell Lowell. Again I hear the song Of the glad bobolink, whose lyric throat Pealed like a tangle of small bells afloat. Ave. — Charles G. D. Roberts. Meanwhile that devil-may-care, the bobolink, Remembering duty, in mid-quaver stops Just ere he sweeps o'er rapture's tremulous brink, And 'twixt the winrows most demurely drops, A decorous bird of business, who provides For his brown mate and fledglings six besides, And looks from right to left, a farmer mid his crops. An Indian Summer Reverie. — James Russell Lowell. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 1 59 BOBOLINK The bobolink ! again I hear The merriest bird of all the year. As through my open window floats The gladsome music of his notes, Mingling with thrush and sparrow's song, And tuneful rivals still prolong The happy chorus, from my heart The lingering shadows all depart. At length the daybreak in the east, My heart from fear in part released. The small fly-catcher first awakes, The second part the robin takes ; And then the wren and vireo Begin with song to overflow. The hangbird's clear and mellow tune, And catbird's matins follow soon. While richer grows the harmony, Still from my soul the shadows flee. But when, at last, from bobolink's throat Bursts out the long-imprisoned note, In liquid sweetness without measure, Bubbling his ecstatic pleasure, Then 'tis sunrise in my heart. In his pure joy I take a part ; And while he sings, I silent raise My morning hymns of thanks and praise. Sunrise. — Thomas Hill. l6o THROUGH THE YEAR BOBOLINK June's bridesman, poet o' the year, Gladness on wings, the bobolink, is here ; Half-hid in tip-top apple-blooms he swings, Or climbs aginst the breeze with quiverin' wings, Or, givin' way to't in a mock despair, Runs down, a brook o' laughter, thru the air. Biglow Papers.— James Russell Lowell. A week ago the sparrow was divine ; The bluebird, shifting his light load of song From post to post along the cheerless fence, Was as a rhymer ere the poet come ; But now, O rapture ! sunshine winged and voiced, Pipe blown through by the warm wild breath of the West Shepherding his soft droves of fleecy cloud, Gladness of woods, skies, waters, all in one, The bobolink has come, and, like the soul Of the sweet season vocal in a bird, Gurgles in ecstasy we know not what Save Jun e ! dear June / now God be praised for June. Under the Willows. —James Russell Lowell. WITH BIRDS AND POETS l6l THE CAT-BIRD Through the night and through the day- Runs a babbling brook away, 'Neath the hill and to the river Through the pasture, on forever. Shadowy playmates still I see, Rivalling the brooklet's glee ; And the cat-bird's voice I hear, That so piqued my childhood's ear. Saucy mocking cat-bird On the alder spray, Even now I hear thee, Though so far away. Thou incarnate, wicked joy, How I watched thee as a boy, — Mocking with thy saucy call Robin, jay, kingfisher, all, — Picking up the varied notes As they fell from feathery throats, Screeching as in demon glee, Our astonishment to see ! Ashen-coated cat-bird On the alder spray, Mocking all thy fellows Through the live-long day. Thou highwayman of the wood, Our New England Robin Hood, Eating eggs thou didst not lay, Making other nests thy prey, 1 62 THROUGH THE YEAR How with childish wrath we heard Tales of thee, thou wicked bird, — Of feathered maidens in distress, — Longing still to make redress ! But thou, saucy cat-bird On the alder spray, All our maledictions Mocked and jeered away ! Oft amid the leaves descried, With thy pert head cocked one side, Oddly jerking thy long tail, How I've heard thee jeer and rail, Scolding on through all the weathers, Like a Carlyle dressed in feathers : Then, to mock the mockery, Thou wouldst bubble o'er in glee. O thou cynic cat-bird, Mimicking mankind, All our whims and fancies Laughing down the wind ! Tragic, comic actor thou, For thy stage an alder bough ; Now some borrowed joyous note Pouring from thy feigning throat ; Now, from wailing puss in sorrow, Her alarm cry thou dost borrow ; Till, to us bewildered, seems Each but fancies of our dreams. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 1 63 Mimic actor, cat-bird, Thus thy betters do, Till 'tween good and evil Nothing seemeth true. Cat-bird, but I love thee still, By the brookside, 'neath the hill, Laughing, mocking in the trees, Feathered Mephistopheles ; Playing out thy varied part Mirroring the human heart ; Fretting, scolding, scornful, then Bursting out in joy again ! Good and evil cat-bird On the alder spray, Like thy contradictions Run our lives away. Minot J. Savage. Note to third stanza. — This stanza is intended to set forth the popu- lar traditions as to the cat-bird's character. The author — as one of his lovers — is inclined to think all such slanderous rumors unfounded. THE CAT-BIRD When from the topmost spray began to chant And flute, and trill, a warbling visitant, A cat-bird, riotous the world above, Hasting to spend his heritage ere love Should music change to madness in his throat, Leaving him naught but one discordant note. And as my home-bred chorister outvied The nightingale, old England's lark beside, 1 64 THROUGH THE YEAR I thought — What need to borrow ? Lustier clime Than ours Earth has not, — nor her scroll a time Ampler of human glory and desire To touch the plume, the brush, the lips with fire. No sunrise chant on ancient shore and sea, Since sang the morning stars, more worth shall be Than ours, once uttered from the very heart Of the glad race that here shall act its part. Blithe prodigal, the rhythm free and strong Of thy brave voice forecasts our poet's song ! Music at Home. — E. C. Stedman. THE CAT-BIRD A skulker in a thicket, loud and harsh His note, his message so unbeautiful, It does belie his bird shape, cheat the sense. But hark ! All suddenly a wondrous lay, And from the self-same throat. 'Tis now a thrush Uttering its nunlike spirit on the air ; And now a robin, cheery-sweet and plumed From morning minstrelsy that wakes the day ; And now a mingled rapture of them both With Somewhat superadded. A strange bird, Yet in his fashion not unlike to man, Who often hides a music-potent soul Under some uncouth semblance of a song That strikes the ear but lamely, — till some stress Of life, some lyric impulse, bids him break His custom, and the world is blessedly Enthralled, the melody is so divine. Richard Burton. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 1 65 TO THE CAT-BIRD Beside the lovely Raritan, That quaintly carves its red-shale cliffs, My childhood's ear drank in thy song, Ere yet my childish heart could know How rich the content of the lay. But fifty years of life may teach The dullest scholar how to hear And see, to understand and feel. Now, in the valley of the Charles, Thy song familiar lifts the veil ; I see more plainly, and I hear More clearly what I heard in youth. Thy melodies then filled my heart With childlike happiness, and gave An added pleasure to the hours Of boyish idleness or play • But now they rouse the deepest thoughts And holiest feelings of my soul, — Reverence and faith and gratitude. I doubt not that thy song is tuned To please thyself and please thy mate ; And yet I doubt if you or she Can feel its meaning as I feel. More thoughtful than the bobolink, More joyous than the oriole, Its liquid warblings speak to me, Of sweet contentment born of faith ; Of happiness not thoughtless, stayed On wisdom, nurtured still by love. 1 66 THROUGH THE YEAR Surely, sweet bird, thy voice, thus rich In meanings far beyond thy ken, Is utterance of a higher soul, Which speaks through thee to human hearts. Thy song has thus a double sense, — Bearing one meaning to thy mate, A higher meaning to our ears : One meaning thine, for her to feel ; The other, His who bade thee sing, And taught our human hearts to feel the song. Thomas Hill. THE CAT-BIRD He sits on a branch of yon blossoming bush, This madcap cousin of robin and thrush, And sings without ceasing the whole morning long ! Now wild, now tender, the wayward song That flows from his soft, gray, fluttering throat. But often he stops in his sweetest note, And, shaking a flower from the blossoming bough, Drawls out, " Mi-ew, mi-ou ! " Dear merry mocker, your mimic art Makes drowsy Grimalkin awake with a start, And peer all around with a puzzled air — For who would suppose that one would dare To mimic the voice of a mortal foe ! You're safe on the bough, as well you know, And if ever a bird could laugh, 'tis you, Drawling, " Mi-ow, mi-ew ! " Edith Thomas. Hermit Thrush WITH BIRDS AND POETS 1 67 THE HERMIT THRUSH Over the tops of the trees, And over the shallow stream, The shepherd of sunset frees The amber phantoms of dream. The time is the time of vision ; The hour is the hour of calm ; Hark ! On the stillness Elysian Breaks how divine a psalm ! " Oh, clear in the sphere of the air, Clear, clear, tender and far, Our aspiration of prayer Unto eve's clear star / " O singer serene, secure ! From thy throat of silver and dew What transport lonely and pure, Unchanging, endlessly new, — An unremembrance of mirth, And a contemplation of tears, As if the musing of earth Communed with the dreams of the years ! " Oh, clear in the sphere of the air, Clear, clear, tender and far, Our aspiration of prayer Unto eve's clear star ! " O cloistral ecstatic ! thy cell In the cool, green aisles of the leaves Is the shrine of a power by whose spell Whoso hears aspires and believes ! 1 68 THROUGH THE YEAR O hermit of evening ! thine hour Is the sacrament of desire, When love hath a heavenlier flower, And passion a holier fire ! " Oh, clear in the sphere of the air. Clear, clear, tender and far, Our aspiration of prayer Unto eve's clear star / " Charles G. D. Roberts. THE HERMIT THRUSH There is a honey scent along the air ; The hermit thrush has tuned his fleeting note, Among the silver birches far remote His spirit voice appeareth here and there, To fail and fade, A visionary cadence falling fair, That lifts and lingers in the hollow shade. In the Country Churchyard.— Duncan Campbell Scott. The hermit thrush begins again — Timorous eremite — That song of risen tears and pain, As if the one he loved was far away : " Alas ! another day," "And now Good Night, Good Night," " Good Night." The End of the Day. — Duncan Campbell Scott. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 1 69 THE BIRD AND THE HOUR The sun looks over a little hill And floods the valley with gold — A torrent of gold ; And the hither field is green and still ; Beyond it a cloud outrolled Is glowing molten and bright ; And soon the hill, and the valley and all, With a quiet fall, Shall be gathered into the night. And yet a moment more, Out of the silent wood, As if from the closing door Of another world and another lovelier mood, Hear'st thou the hermit pour — So sweet ! so magical ! — His golden music, ghostly beautiful. Archibald Lampman. THE WOOD THRUSH In that soft twilight change of summer eves From rosy bloom to darkness cool and still, Sweet from some dusky haunt among the leaves Thy voice is heard by lonely field or hill, Chanting thy low, impassioned vesper hymn, Clear as the silver treble of a stream Round mossy isles in woodland valleys dim. There have I hearkened, as one in a dream Lies smiling, while some dear form bent above 170 THROUGH THE YEAR Taps at the muffled portals of the brain With gentle touch and murmured words of love Until the heart stirs with tender pain ; While the wrapt senses soothed in slumbrous balm Sink down still deeper in delicious calm. Charles L. Hildreth. THE WOOD THRUSH With what a clear And ravishing sweetness sang the plaintive thrush. I love to hear his delicate rich voice, Chanting through all the gloomy day, when loud Amid the trees is dropping the big rain, And gray mists wrap the hill ; for aye the sweeter His song is when the day is sad and dark. Anon. WILSON'S THRUSH On a broken branch of towering pine Sits a small brown bird of modest mien. The sunlit red from the western sky Comes aslant the vine-clad trunks between. It stretches along on the spicy ground, Where the needles burn with a ruddy light - In many a glow like this they've shone, Up at the pine-top's tapering height. Murmurs the breath of the coming eve, Moving the tops of the gilded trees ; The birches rustle beside the road, Gently touched by the southern breeze. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 171 Even the catbird's song is stilled, The scent from the meadow is cool and damp, The van of the army of darkness comes Into the forest, and pitches camp. A gloaming of doubt and of sad regret Enters our mind as the sun goes down, But a startling chirp to an answering mate Reminds us again of the bird in brown. At once there follows a song so fine, So mellowed by distance, so wondrous near, At first we're doubtful if it be his — So'tender and muffled, so ringing and clear. Chiming and trilling and answered afar, Simple, but bearing some mystic good : And somehow the silence it does not harm, Though filling each nook of the echoing wood. Silver-tongued reeds and crystal flutes, Strings that are blended by dearest hands, Music from boats that are weary of sea, Floating ashore to Elysian lands. Forgotten the gloom that had darkened our mind — The voice of the singer goes into our ears, And there makes the music earth never affords, Which only the soul of the listener hears. William G. Barton. 172 THROUGH THE YEAR THE VEERY The moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood were pouring When first I heard the nightingale a long-lost love deploring. So passionate, so full of pain, it sounded strange and eerie ; I longed to hear a simpler strain, — the wood-notes of the veery. The laverock sings a bonnie lay above the Scottish heather ; It sprinkles down from far away like light and love to- gether ; He drops the golden notes to greet his brooding mate, his dearie ; I only know one song more sweet, — the vespers of the veery. In English gardens, green and bright and full of fruity treasure, I heard the blackbird with delight repeat his merry measure : The ballad was a pleasant one, the tune was loud and cheery, And yet with every setting sun I listened for the veery. But far away, and far away, the tawny thrush is singing ; New England woods, at close of day, with that clear chant are ringing : And when my light of life is low, and heart and flesh are weary ; I fain would hear, before I go, the wood-notes of the veery # Henry Van Dyke. From "The Builders and Other Poems." Copyright, 1897, by Charles Scribner's Sons. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 1 73 THE THRUSH The thrush sings high on the topmost bough, Low, tender, low again ; and now He has changed his tree, you know not how, For you saw no flitting wing. All the notes of the forest-throng, Flute, reed, and string, are in his song ; Never a fear knows he, nor wrong, Nor a doubt of anything. Small room for care in that soft breast ; All-weather that comes is to him the best, While he sees his mate close on her nest, And the woods are full of spring. He has lost his last year's love, I know, — He, too, but 'tis little he keeps of woe ; For a bird forgets in a year or so. No wonder the thrush can sing. Edward R. Sill. Anon I start a thrush, and up he wings, And with a trail of music darts away, Seeking the republic of high woods, Where he is citizen, but where his kind Use melody for speech, and have no nag Save the waved leaf above each wicker home. A Morning Pastoral. — Henry L. Abbey. 174 THROUGH THE YEAR THE BROWN THRASHER My creamy breast is speckled (Perhaps you'd call it freckled) Black and brown. My pliant russet tail Beats like a frantic flail Up and down. In the top branch of a tree You may chance to glance at me When I sing. But I'm very, very shy, When I silently float by, On the wing. Whew there ! Hi there ! Such a clatter ! What's the matter — what's the matter? Really, really ! Digging, delving, raking, sowing, Corn is sprouting, corn is growing ! Plant it, plant it ! Gather it, gather it ! Thresh it, thresh it ! Hide it, hide it, do ! (I see it — and you.) Oh ! — I'm that famous scratcher, H-a-r-p-o-r-h-y-n-c-h-u-s r-u-f-u-s — Thrasher — Cloaked in brown. Citizen Bird. —Mabel Osgood Wright. By permission of The Macmillan Co. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 1 75 THE VESPER SPARROW It comes from childhood land, Where summer days are long And summer eves are bland, — A lulling good-night song. Upon a pasture stone, Against the fading west, A small bird sings alone, Then dives and finds its nest. The evening star has heard And flutters into sight ; O childhood's vesper-bird, My heart calls back, Good-night. Edith Thomas. YELLOW-BREASTED CHAT A mournful cry from the thickets here, A scream from the fields afar ; The chirp of a summer warbler near, Of a spring- tide song a bar ; Then rattle and rasp, A groan, a laugh, Till we fail to grasp These sounds, by half, That come from the throat of the ghostly chat, An imp, if there is one, be sure of that. 176 THROUGH THE YEAR Aloft in the sunny air he springs ; To his timid mate he calls ; With dangling legs and fluttering wings, On the tangled smilax falls ; He mutters, he shrieks ■ — A hopeless cry ; You think that he seeks, In peace, to die ; But pity him not : 'tis the ghostly chat, An imp, if there is one, rest sure of that. Afar in the gloomy swamp, where flits The will-o'-the-wisp by night, This elf, a-dreaming, restless sits, And mutters his strange delight, In quavers and sharps, And flute-like note, With twang of harps, That swell the throat Of the mystical, wierd, uncanny chat, In league with foul spirits, I'm sure of that. Waste Land Wanderings. — Charles C. Abbott. Published by Harper & Bros. BIRD MUSIC Singer of priceless melody, Unguerdoned chorister of air, Who from the lithe top of the tree Pourest at will thy music rare, As if a sudden brook laughed down the hill-side there. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 1 77 The purple-blossomed fields of grass Waved sea-like to the idle wind, Thick daisies that the stars surpass, Being as fair and far more kind ; All sweet uncultured things thy wild notes bring to mind. When that enraptured overflow Of singing into silence dies, Thy rapid fleeting pinions show Where all thy spell of sweetness lies Gathered in one small nest from the wide earth and skies. Unconscious of thine audience, Careless of praise as of blame, In simpleness and innocence, Thy gentle life pursues its aim, So tender and serene, that we might blush for shame. The patience of thy brooding wings That droop in silence day by day, The little crowd of callow things That joy for weariness repay, — These are the living spring, thy song the fountain's spray. Rose T. Cooke. i;8 THROUGH THE YEAR TO THE WARBLING VIREO Sweet little prattler, whom the morning sun Found singing, and this livelong summer day Keeps warbling still : here have I dreamed away Two bright and happy hours, that passed like one, Lulled by thy silvery converse, just begun And never ended. Thou dost preach to me Sweet patience and her guest, reality, The sense of days, and weeks, and months that run Scarce altering in their round of happiness, And quiet thoughts, and toils that do not kill, And homely pastimes. Though the old distress Loom gray above us both at times, ah, still, Be constant to thy woodland note, sweet bird ; By me at least thou shalt be loved and heard. Archibald Lampman. THE BELTED PIPING PLOVER The Plover utters a piping sound While on the wing or on the ground ; All a-tremble it drops its wings, And with its legs half bent, it sings : " My nest is near, come take the eggs, And take me too, — I'm off my legs." In vain men search with eager eyes, — No nest is found, the plover flies ! Charles C. Marble. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 1 79 RED-EYED VIREO Apostle of the grove across the way, Surpliced in color of the foliage, I list enchanted to thy sermon lay, As if it were the wisdom of a sage ; " You see it ! You know it ! Do you hear me ? Do you believe it? " Ah ! thou wouldst quicken memory to-day. Nor morning's chill, nor noon-tide's languorous heat, Doth hold thy voice in thrall, O preacher fair ; Perched on the greenest bough, thy message sweet Thou pourest out upon the vibrant air, " You see it ! You know it ! Do your hear me ? Do you believe it? " Over and over in a swift repeat. Apostle of the grove ! Thy song divine The God of Nature gave thee note by note, To gladder, fuller make the message thine, Rippling in beauty from thy dainty throat. " You see it ! You know it ! Do you hear me ? Do you believe it?" Would that apostleship so sweet were mine ! Jenny Terrill Ruprecht. r JULY The russet wren glides in among the vines, And adds another strandunio its nest, Then, on the neighboring trellis, pours its song. The poor man's cottage is its favorite haunt ; And he is poor indeed, who to his roof Can ivelcome not the yearly visitor, To cheer his door with music ! The New Pastoral. — Thomas Buchanan Read. The little bird sits in the nest and sings A shy, soft song to the morning light ; And it flutters a little and prunes its wings. The song is halting and poor and brief, And the fluttering wings scarce stir a leaf; But the note is prelude to sweeter things, And the busy bill and the flutter slight Are proving the wings for a bolder flight ! Preparation. — Paul Dunbar. A robin sings his song to-day ; Sings softly, by his hidden nest, A little roundelay of rest ; And as the wind his dwelling swings He dreams his dream of unfledged wings, While, blending with his song, I hear A brook's low babble, so?newhere near. A July Day. — Eben Eugene Rexford. 182 WITH BIRDS AND POETS 1 83 THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH The robin and the bluebird, piping loud, Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee ; The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be ; And hungry crows, assembled in a crowd, Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly, Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said : " Give us. O Lord, this day our daily bread ! " Across the Sound the birds of passage sailed, Speaking some unknown language strange and sweet Of tropic isle remote, and passing hailed The village with the cheers of all their fleet ; Or quarrelling together, laughed and railed Like foreign sailors, landed in the street Of seaport town, and with outlandish noise Of oaths and gibberish frightening girls and boys. Thus came the jocund spring in Killingworth, In fabulous days, some hundred years ago ; And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the earth, Heard with alarm the cawing of the crow, That mingled with the universal mirth, Cassandra-like, prognosticating woe ; They shook their heads, and doomed with dreadful words To swift destruction the whole race of birds. 1 84 THROUGH THE YEAR And a town-meeting was convened straightway To set a price upon the guilty heads Of these marauders, who, in lieu of pay, Levied blackmail upon the garden beds And cornfields, and beheld without dismay The awful scarecrow, with his fluttering shreds ; The skeleton that waited at their feast, Whereby their sinful pleasure was increased. The Squire presided, dignified and tall; His air impressive and his reasoning sound ; 111 fared it with the birds, both great and small ; Hardly a friend in all that crowd they found, But enemies enough, who every one Charged them with all the crimes beneath the sun. When they had ended, from his place apart Rose the Preceptor, to redress the wrong, And, trembling like a steed before the start, Looked round bewildered on the expectant throng ; Then thought of fair Almira, and took heart To speak out what was in him, clear and strong, Alike regardless of their smile or frown, And quite determined not to be laughed down. " Plato, anticipating the Reviewers, From his Republic banished without pity The Poets ; in this little town of yours You put to death, by means of a Committee, WITH BIRDS AND POETS 1 85 The ballad -singers and the Troubadours, The street-musicians of the heavenly city, The birds, who make sweet music for us all In our dark hours, as David did for Saul. " The thrush that carols at the dawn of day From the green steeples of the piny wood ; The oriole in the elm ; the noisy jay, Jargoning like a foreigner at his food ; The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray, Flooding with melody the neighborhood ; Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song, " You slay them all ! and wherefore ? for the gain Of a scant handful more or less of wheat, Or rye, or barley, or some other grain, Scratched up at random by industrious feet, Searching for worms or weevil after rain ! Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet As are the songs these uninvited guests Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts. " Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these ? Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taught The dialect they speak, where melodies Alone are the interpreters of thought ? Whose household words are songs in many keys, Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught ! Whose habitations in the tree-tops even Are half-way houses on the road to heaven ! 1 86 THROUGH THE YEAR " Think every morning when the sun peeps through The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove, How jubilant the happy birds renew Their old, melodious madrigals of love ! And when you think of this, remember too Tis always morning somewhere, and above The awakening continents, from shore to shore, Somewhere the birds are singing evermore. " Think of your woods and orchards without birds ! Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams, As in an idiot's brain remembered words Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams ! Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds Make up for the lost music, when your teams Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more The feathered gleaners follow to your door? " What ! would you rather see the incessant stir Of insects in the winrows of the hay, And hear the locust and the grasshopper Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play? Is this more pleasant to you than the whirr Of meadow-lark, and her sweet roundelay, Or twitter of little field-fares, as you take Your nooning in the shade of bush and brake ? " You call them thieves and pillagers ; but know, They are the winged wardens of your farms, Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe, And from your harvests keep a hundred harms; WITH BIRDS AND POETS 1 87 Even the blackest of them all, the crow, Renders good service as your man-at-arms, Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail, And crying havoc on the slug and snail. " How can I teach your children gentleness, And mercy to the weak, and reverence For Life, which, in its weakness or excess, Is still a gleam of God's omnipotence ; Or Death, which, seeming darkness, is no less The selfsame light, although averted hence, When by your laws, your actions, and your speech, You contradict the very things I teach? " With this he closed ; and through the audience went A murmur like the rustle of dead leaves ; The farmers laughed and nodded, and some bent Their yellow heads together like their sheaves ; Men have no faith in fine-spun sentiment Who put their trust in bullocks and in beeves. The birds were doomed ; and, as the record shows, A bounty offered for the heads of crows. And so the dreadful massacre began ; O'er fields and orchards, and o'er woodland crests, The ceaseless fusillade of terror ran. Dead fell the birds, with blood-stains on their breasts, Or wounded crept away from sight of man, While the young died of famine in their nests ; A slaughter to be told in groans, not words, The very St. Bartholomew of Birds ! 1 88 THROUGH THE YEAR The summer came, and all the birds were dead ; The days were like hot coals ; the very ground Was burned to ashes ; in the orchards fed Myriads of caterpillars, and around The cultivated fields and garden beds Hosts of devouring insects crawled, and found No foe to check their march, till they had made The land a desert without leaf or shade. « Devoured by worms, like Herod, was the town, Because, like Herod, it had ruthlessly Slaughtered the Innocents. From the trees spun down The canker-worms upon the passers-by, Upon each woman's bonnet, shawl, and gown, Who shook them oif with just a little cry ; They were the terror of each favorite walk, The endless theme of all the village talk. The farmers grew impatient, but a few Confessed their error, and would not complain, For, after all, the best thing one can do When it is raining is to let it rain. Then they repealed the law, although they knew It would not call the dead to life again ; As school-boys, finding their mistake too late, Draw a wet sponge across the accusing slate. That year in Killingworth the autumn came Without the light of his majestic look, The wonder of the falling tongues of flame, The illumined pages of his Doom's-Day book. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 1 8< A few lost leaves blushed crimson with their shame, And drowned themselves despairing in the brook, While the wild wind went moaning, everywhere Lamenting the dead children of the air ! But the next spring a stranger sight was seen, A sight that never yet by bard was sung, As great a wonder as it would have been If some dumb animal had found a tongue ! A wagon, overarched with evergreen, Upon whose boughs were wicker cages hung, All full of singing birds, came down the street, Filling the air with music wild and sweet. From all the country round these birds were brought, By order of the town, with anxious quest, And, loosened from their wicker prisons, sought In woods and fields the places they loved best, Singing loud canticles, which many thought Were satires to the authorities addressed, While others, listening in green lanes, averred Such lovely music never had been heard ! Henry W. Longfellow. 190 THROUGH THE YEAR THE FIELD SPARROW A bubble of music floats The slope of the hillside over ; A little wandering sparrow's notes ; And the bloom of yarrow and clover, And the smell of sweet-fern and the bayberry leaf, On his ripple of song are stealing ; For he is a chartered thief, The wealth of the fields revealing. One syllable, clear and soft As a raindrop's silvery patter, Or a tinkling fairy-bell, heard aloft, In the midst of the merry chatter Of robin and linnet and wren and jay, — One syllable, oft repeated : He has but one word to say, And of that he will not be cheated. The singer I have not seen : But the song I arise and follow The brown hills over, the pastures green, And into the sunlit hollow, With a joy that his life unto mine has lent. I can feel my glad eyes glisten, Though he hides in his happy tent, While I stand outside and listen. This way would I also sing, My dear little hillside neighbor ! WITH BIRDS AND POETS 191 A tender carol of peace to bring To the sunburnt fields of labor Is better than making a loud ado : Trill on, amid clover and yarrow ! There's a heart-beat echoing you And blessing you, blithe little sparrow ! Lucy Larcom. THE DOVE If haply thou, O Desdemona Morn, Shouldst call along the curving sphere, " Remain, Dear Night, sweet Moor, nay, leave me not in scorn ! " With soft halloos of heavenly love and pain ; Shouldst thou, O Spring ! a-cower in coverts dark, 'Gainst proud supplanting Summer sing thy plea, And move the mighty woods through mailed bark Till mortal heart-break throbbed in every tree ; Or (grievous if that may be yea o'er soon !), If thou, my Heart, long holden from thy Sweet, Shouldst knock Death's door with mellow shocks of tune, Sad inquiry to make — When may we meet ? Nay, if ye three, O Morn ! O Spring ! O Heart ! Should chant grave unisons of grief and love, Ye could not mourn with more melodious art Than daily doth von dim sequestered dove. Sidney Lanier. From "Poems of Sidney Lanier." Copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D. Lanier and published by Charles Scribner's Sons. 192 THROUGH THE YEAR WINGS OF A DOVE I. At sunset, when the rosy light was dying, Far down the pathway of the west I saw a lonely dove in silence flying, To be at rest. Pilgrim of air, I cried, could I but borrow Thy wandering wings, thy freedom blest, I'd fly away from every careful sorrow, And find my rest. II. But when the dusk a filmy veil was weaving, Back came the dove to seek her nest Deep in the forest where her mate was grieving,— There was true rest. Peace, heart of mine ! no longer sigh to wander ; Lose not thy life in fruitless quest. There are no happy islands over yonder ; Come home and rest. Henry Van Dyke. From "The Builders and Other Poems." Copyright, 1S97, by Charles Scribner's Sons. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 1 93 TO THE LAPLAND LONGSPUR I. thou northland bobolink, Looking over summer's brink Up to winter, worn and dim, Peering down from mountain rim, Something takes me in thy note, Quivering wing, and bubbling throat ; Something moves me in thy ways — Bird, rejoicing in thy days, In thy upward-hovering flight, In thy suit of black and white, Chestnut cape and circled crown, In thy mate of speckled brown ; Surely I may pause and think Of my boyhood's bobolink. II. Soaring over meadows wild (Greener pastures never smiled) ; Raining music from above, Full of rapture, full of love ; Frolic, gay and debonair, Yet not all exempt from care, For thy nest is in the grass, And thou worriest as I pass : But nor hand nor foot of mine Shall do harm to thee or thine ; I, musing, only pause to think Of my boyhood's bobolink. 194 THROUGH THE YEAR III. But no bobolink of mine Ever sang o'er mead so fine, Starred with flowers of ever}' hue, Gold and purple, white and blue ; Painted cup, anemone, Jacob's ladder, fleur-de-lis, Orchid, harebell, shooting-star, • Crane's-bill, lupine, seen afar, Primrose, poppy, saxifrage, Pictured type on Nature's page — These and others, here unnamed, In northland gardens, yet untamed, Deck the fields where thou dost sing, Mounting up on trembling wing ; While in wistful mood I think Of my bovhood's bobolink. IV. On Unalaska's emerald lea, On lonely isles in Behring sea, On far Siberia's barren shore, On north Alaska's tundra floor, At morn, at noon, in pallid night, We heard thy song and saw thy flight, While I, sighing, could but think Of my boyhood's bobolink. John Burroughs. Copyright, iSoo, by the Century Co. v4, _-' 4^r Young Sparrow Hawk WITH BIRDS AND POETS 1 95 THE HAWK Ambushed in yonder cloud of white, Far- glittering from its azure height, He shrouds his swiftness and his might ! But oft across the echoing sky, Long-drawn, though uttered suddenly, We hear his strange, shrill, bodeful cry. Winged robber ! in his vaporous tower Secure in craft, as strong in power, Coolly he bides the fated hour, When thro' cloud-rifts of shadowy rise, Earthward are bent his ruthless eyes, Where, blind to doom, the quarry lies-! And from dense cloud to noontide glow (His fiery gaze still fixed below), He sails on pinions proud and slow ! Till like a fierce, embodied ray, He hurtles down the dazzling day, A death-flash on his startled prey ; And where but now a nest was found, Voiceful, beside its grassy mound, A few brown feathers strew the ground ! Paul Hamilton Hayne. 196 THROUGH THE YEAR TO THE WHIPPOORWILL Bird of the lone and joyless night, Whence is thy sad and solemn lay ? Attendant on the pale moon's light, Why shun the garish blaze of day ? When darkness fills the dewy air, Nor sounds the song of happier bird, Alone, amid the silence there, Thy wild and plaintive note is heard. Thyself unseen, thy pensive moan Pour'd in no living comrade's ear, The forest's shaded depths alone Thy mournful melody can hear. Beside what still and secret spring, In what dark wood the livelong day, Sett'st thou with dusk and folded wing, To while the hours of light away. Sad minstrel ! thou hast learn'd, like me, That life's deceitful gleam is vain; And well the lesson profits thee, Who will not trust its charms again. Thou, unbeguiled, thy plaint dost trill To listening night, when mirth is o'er ; I, heedless of the warning, still Believe, to be deceived once more. Elizabeth F. Ellet. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 1 97 THE WHIPPOORWILL Listen, how the whippoorwill From his song-bed veiled and dusky Fills the night ways warm and musky With his music's throb and thrill ! 'Tis the western nightingale Lodged within the orchard's pale, Starting into sudden tune 'Mid the amorous air of June, Lord of all the songs of night, Bird unseen, of voice outright, Buried in the sumptuous gloom Of his shadow-paneled room, 'Roofed above by webbed and woven Leaf and bloom, by moonbeams cloven, Searched by odorous zephyrs through, Dim with dusk and damp with "dew, — He it is that makes the night An enchantment and delight, Opening his entrancing tale Where the evening robins fail, Ending his victorious strain When the robins wake again. Obadiah C. Auringer. WHIPPOORWILL Loud and sudden and near the notes of a whippoorwill sounded Like a flute in the woods ; and anon, through the neigh- boring thickets, Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence. Evangeline. — Henry W. Longfellow. AUGUST Whose wavy flight and cheery whistle Adorn the wastes overgrown with thistle; No field so foul with noisome weeds But there the dainty goldfinch feeds, And greets with song the fervent rays That flood high noon of August days. The Goldfinch. — Charles C. Abbott. I cannot love the ?nan who doth not love, As men love light, the song of happy birds. Albert Pike. The little birds are too busy for even a song ; For the old ones are teaching the young ones to fly, With 7n any aflutter, and many a cry, — And now, they are flown in the blue sky spaces ! Blossom, Blossom on the Green Bough. — Edith Thomas. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 201 THE GOLDEN-CROWN SPARROW OF ALASKA I minstrel of these borean hills, Where twilight hours are long, 1 would my boyhood's fragrant days Had known thy plaintive song ; II Had known thy vest of ashen gray, Thy coat of drab and brown, The bands of jet upon thy head That clasp thy golden crown. Ill We heard thee in the cold White Pass, Where cloud and mountain meet, Again where Muir's great glacier shone Far spread beneath our feet. IV I bask me now on emerald heights To catch thy faintest strain, But cannot tell if in thy lay Be more of joy or pain. V Far off behold the snow-white peaks Athwart the sea's blue shade ; Anear there rise green Kadiak hills, Wherein thy nest is made. 202 THROUGH THE YEAR VI I hear the wild bee's mellow chord, In airs that swim above ; The lesser hermit tunes his flute To solitude and love. VII But thou, sweet singer of the wild, I give more heed to thee ; Thy wistful note of fond regret Strikes deeper chords in me. VIII Farewell, dear bird ! I turn my face To other skies than thine — A thousand leagues of land and sea Between thy home and mine. John Burroughs. Copyright, 1898, by the Century Company. THE HUMMING-BIRD Poised in a sheeny mist Of the dust of bloom, Clasped to the poppy's breast and kissed^ Baptized in violet perfume From foot to plume ! Zephyr loves thy wings Above all lovable things, And brings them gifts with rapturous murmurings : Thine is the golden reach of blooming hours ; Spirit of flowers ! WITH BIRDS AND POETS 203 Music follows thee, And, continually, Thy life is changed and sweetened happily, Having no more than roseleaf shade of gloom, O bird of bloom ! Thou art a winged thought Of tropical hours, With all the tropics' rare bloom-splendor fraught, Surcharged with beauty's indefinable powers, Angel of flowers ! Maurice Thompson. THE HUMMING-BIRD Is it a monster bee, Or is it a midget bird, Or yet an air-born mystery That now yon marigold has stirred, And now on vocal wing To a neighbor bloom is whirred, In an aery ecstasy, in a passion of pilfering ? Ah ! 'tis the humming-bird, Rich-coated one, Ruby-throated one, That is not chosen for song, But throws its whole rapt sprite Into the secrets of flowers The summer days; along, Into most odorous hours, Into a murmurous sound of wings too swift for sight ! Richard Burton. 204 THROUGH THE YEAR HUMMING-BIRD When the morning dawns, and the blest sun again Lifts his red glories from the eastern main, Then thro' our woodbines, wet with glittering dews, The flower-fed humming-bird his round pursues ; Sips, with inserted tube, the honey'd blooms, And chirps his gratitude as round he roams ; While richest roses, tho' in crimson drest, Shrink from the splendor of his gorgeous breast. What heavenly tints in mingling radiance fly, Each rapid movement gives a different dye ; Like scales of burnish' d gold they dazzling show, Now sink to shade — now like a furnace glow ! Alexander Wilson. TO A HUMMING-BIRD Voyager on golden air, Type of all that's fleet and fair, Incarnate gem, Live diadem Bird-beam of the summer day, — Whither on your sunny way? Loveliest of all lovely things, Roses open to your wings ; Each gentle breast Would give you rest ; Stay, forget lost Paradise, Star-bird fallen from happy skies. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 205 Vanished ! Earth is not his home ; Onward, onward must he roam Swift passion- thought, In rapture wrought, Issue of the soul's desire, Plumed with beauty and with fire. John Vance Cheney. THE HUMMING-BIRD Like thoughts that flit across the mind, Leaving no lasting trace behind, The humming-bird darts to and fro, Comes, vanishes before we know. While thoughts may be but airy things That come and go on viewless wings, Nor form nor substance e'en possess, Nor number know, or more or less, This leaves an image, well defined, To be a picture of the mind ; Its tiny form and colors bright In memory live, when lost to sight. There oft it comes at evening's hour, To flutter still from flower to flower ; Then vanish midst the gathering shade, Its momentary visit paid. Jones Very. 206 THROUGH THE YEAR THE HUMMING-BIRD So small and fair ; A sun-dyed dew-drop born with wings. 'Neath Salvia's coral cup it swings, And to the winded flower clings As if grown there. So neat and fair ; An artist's dream of loveliness — Its form charms thro' a gauze-like dress Of rapid wings, that one might guess Was wrought of air. So wise and fair ; A poet's thought that lives by stealth, From honeyed cups it drinks its health, With too much joy for making wealth To purchase care. So true and fair ; Each change without affects its coat ; A fire bell blazes on its throat ; Yet still it chirps the one clear note Blown everywhere ! So sweet and fair ; Its mellow hum hath magic powers, To wake to life dead summer hours — Fond memories fresh as fragrant flowers, In winter bare. Ira Billman. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 2QJ THE HUMMING-BIRD There is a silence in this summer day, And in the sweet, soft air no faintest sound But gentle breezes passing on their way, Just stirring phantom branches on the ground ; While in between the softly moving leaves, Down to their shadows on the grass below, The brilliant sunshine finds its way and weaves A thousand patterns glancing to and fro. A peace ineffable, a beauty rare Holds human hearts with touch we know divine. When, hush ! — a little tumult in the air ; A rush of tiny wings, a something, fine And frail, darting in fiery haste, all free In every motion ; scarce we've seen or heard Ere it is gone ! How can such swiftness be Incarnate in an atom of a bird ! To know this mite, one instant poised in space, Scarce tangible, yet seen, then vanishing From out our ken, leaving no slightest trace ! Ah, whither gone, you glowing jewelled thing? Before you came the very air seemed stilled ; More silent now because with wonder filled. Laura M. Marquand. 208 THROUGH THE YEAR THE HUMMING-BIRD Emerald-plumed, ruby-throated, Flashing like a fair star Where the humid, dew-becoated, Sun- illumined blossoms are — See the fleet humming-bird ! Hark to his humming, heard Loud as the whirr of a fairy king's car ! Sightliest, sprightliest, lightest, and brightest one, Child of the summer sun, Shining afar ! Brave little humming-bird ! Every eye blesses thee ; Sunlight caresses thee, Forest and field are the fairest for thee, Blooms, at thy coming stirred, Bend on each brittle stem, Nod to the little gem, Bow to the humming-bird, frolic and free. Now around the woodbine hovering, Now the morning-glory covering, Now the honeysuckle sipping, Now the sweet clematis tipping, Now into the bluebell dipping ; Hither, thither, flashing, bright'ning, Like a streak of emerald lightning ; Round the box, with milk-white phlox ; Round the fragrant four-o'clocks ; WITH BIRDS AND POETS 209 O'er the crimson quamoclit, Lightly dost thou wheel and flit ; Into each tubed throat Dives little Ruby-throat. Bright-glowing airy thing, Light-going fairy thing, Not the grand lyre-bird Rivals thee, splendid one ! — Fairy-attended one Green-coated fire-bird ! Shiniest fragile one, Tiniest agile one, Falcon and eagle tremble before thee ! Dim is the regal peacock and lory, And the pheasant, iridescent, Pales before the gleam and glory Of the jewel-change incessant When the sun is streaming o'er thee ! Hear thy soft humming, Like a sylph's drumming ! Anon. A HUMMING-BIRD Somewhere I've seen thee, strange sprite, Somewhere I've known thee ere now, Among the wild broods of the night That nest on the Morphean bough ! 2IO THROUGH THE YEAR Thou with a silent throat Dost busily rifle all blooms ; O flitter-winged bandit, thy note Is the bee's song shed from thy plumes ! Whisper those things in my ear, That thou art so ready to tell To creatures too heedless to hear, — The lily, the foxglove's bell ! Aha ! is it so ? — By these eyes, Prospero's servant I see, — Ariel clad in the guise Of a humming-bird lightsome and free ! Edith Thomas. HUMMING-BIRD And the humming-bird, that hung Like a jewel up among The tilted honeysuckle-horns, They mesmerized, and swung In the palpitating air, Drowsed with odors strange and rare, And, with whispered laughter, slipped away And left him hanging there. The South Wind and the Sun. — JAMES Whitcomb Riley. And a soft bass is heard From the quick pinions of the humming-bird. Our Fellow- Worshippers. — William Cullen Bryant. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 211 HUMMING-BIRD Thou tiny spirit of the air, With sylph-like motion, glad and free ; Who can thy meteor presence spare, Whose childhood passed near thee ? For near our door thou lov'st to dip Thy bill in the bignonia's bloom And of its nectar juices sip 'Mid summer's choice perfume. T. A. Conrad. Overhead on a maple prong The least of birds, a jewelled sprite, ' With burnished throat and needle bill, Wags his head in the golden light, Till it flashes, and dulls, and flashes bright, Cheeping his microscopic song. Field Notes. — EDWARD Sill. KING BIRD Far in the south, where vast Maragnon flows, And boundless forests unknown wilds inclose ; Vine-tangled shores, and suffocating woods, Parched up with heat or drowned with pouring floods, Where each extreme alternately prevails, And Nature sad their ravages bewails \ Lo ! high in air, above those trackless wastes, With Spring's return the king bird hither hastes ; Coasts the famed Gulf, 1 and from his height explores *Of Mexico. 212 THROUGH THE YEAR Its thousand streams, its long-indented shores, Its plains immense, wide op'ning on the day, Its lakes and isles, where feathered millions play. All tempt not him ; till, gazing from on high, Columbia's regions wide below him lie ; There end his wanderings and his wish to roam, There lie his native woods, his field, his home ; Down, circling, he descends, from azure heights, And on a full-blown sassafras alights. Fatigu'd and silent, for a while he views His old frequented haunts, and shades recluse ; Sees brothers, comrades, every hour arrive, — Hears humming round, the tenants of the hive ; Love fires his breast ; he woos, and soon is blest, And in the blooming orchard builds his nest. Come now, ye cowards ! ye whom Heaven disdains, Who boast the happiest home, — the richest plains, On whom, perchance, a wife, an infant's eye Hang as their hope, and on your arm rely, Yet, when the hour of danger and dismay Comes on your country, sneak in holes away, Shrink from the perils ye were bound to face, And leave those babes and country to disgrace ; Come here, (if such we have,) ye dastard herd ! And kneel in dust before this noble bird. When the speck'd eggs within his nest appear, Then glows affection, ardent and sincere. No discord sours him when his mate he meets, But each warm heart with mutual kindness beats. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 213 For her repast he bears along the lea The bloated gad-fly, and the balmy bee ; For her repose scours o'er th' adjacent farm, Whence hawks might dart, or lurking foes alarm ; For now abroad a band of ruffians prey, The crow, the cuckoo, and th' insidious jay : These, in the owner's absence, all destroy, And murder every hope and every joy. Soft sits his brooding mate, her guardian he, Perch'd on the top of some tall, neighb'ring tree ; Thence, from the thicket to the concave skies, His watchful eye around unceasing flies. Wrens, thrushes, warblers, startled at his note, Fly in affright the consecrated spot. He drives the plundering jay, with honest scorn, Back to his woods, — the mocker, to his thorn ; Sweeps round the cuckoo, as the thief retreats ; Attacks the crow ; the diving hawk defeats ; Darts on the eagle downwards from afar, And, 'midst the clouds, prolongs the whirling war. All danger o'er, he hastens back elate, To guard his post, and feed his faithful mate. Behold him now, his little family flown, Meek, unassuming, silent, and alone, Lur'd by the well-known hum of favorite bees, As slow he hovers o'er the garden trees ; (For all have feelings, passions, whims that lead Some favorite wish, some appetite to feed;) Straight he alights, and, from the pear-tree, spies The circling stream of humming insects rise ; 214 THROUGH THE YEAR Selects his prey, darts on the busy brood, And shrilly twitters o'er his savory food. Ah ! ill-timed triumph ! direful note to thee, That guides thy murderer to the fatal tree ; See where he skulks, and takes his gloomy stand, The deep-charg'd musket hanging in his hand ; And, gaunt for blood, he leans it on a rest, Prepared, and pointed at thy snow-white breast. Ah, friend ! good friend ! forbear that barbarous deed ! Against it Valor, Goodness, Pity plead ; If ere a family's griefs, a widow's woe, Have reach'd the soul, in mercy let him go ! Yet, should the tear of pity nought avail, Let interest speak, let gratitude prevail. Kill not thy friend, who thy whole harvest shields, And sweeps ten thousand vermin from thy fields ; Think how this dauntless bird, thy poultry's guard, Drove every hawk and eagle from thy yard ; Watched round thy cattle as they fed, and slew The hungry, blackening swarms that round them flew. Some small return — some little right resign, And spare his life whose services are thine ! — I plead in vain ! Amid the bursting roar, The poor lost king bird welters in his gore ! Alexander Wilson. King Bi WITH BIRDS AND POETS 215 THE KING BIRD Hark ! as the red-bird dumb to shelter flies, Fighting his way from Amazonian skies The king bird comes ; and on yon flow'ring tree, Swift from whose bloom in terror darts the bee, Screaming alights ; his heritage with pride Surveys, of tree and thorn-hedge spreading wide, But most of air — with insects all alive, And what to him is luxury, the hive ; Then stoops, selects some scraggly orchard limb — Its height a momentary thought with him, Who, to protect the brood confined there, Relies upon his courage and his care — On which he boldly plants his nest, in sight, And dares the eagle to dispute his right. Come ! ye that make a thriving land your prey, Yet, at the call of danger, sneak away ; Come, ye unfeeling, selfish, craven herd, And blush to learn your duty from a bird. The sticks once laid, with wither'd flowers entv/in'd And wool, impervious to the wet and wind, His kind suspicion then admits no guest, But, friend or foe, he drives them from his nest : And perch'd upon some top-twig, bare and high, That no intruder may escape his eye, With crest that bristles at each passing wing And trembles with his eagerness to spring, Marks out a realm, whose limits vary still, Like those of other despots, at his will, And ere it with impunity be crossed, Bravely resolves to perish at his post. 2l6 THROUGH THE YEAR But chief the crow his desperate sally flies, And wheels and dives and flounders through the skies ; In vain ; for darting down he clings behind And tears and strews her feathers on the wind ; Th' astonish' d ploughman stops his team, to spy Red drops descend, and lifts his wondering eye. Then, while the little victor stoops below Amid a shower of plumes, his coward foe Hies to the wood for shelter or the cleft, And doubting if she has a feather left, Thinks in the rustling leaves she hears him sweep, And sees him, horrid spectre ! in her sleep. But having train'd his nursling to the sky And taught him properly to snap his fly, The rightful cause for which he battled o'er, Unlike his betters, he wakes war no more : And hovering o'er the mead with flickering wing, Or perch' d in ambush by the hive or spring, Intent with restless eye his watch to keep, Selects and snaps his victim, with a sweep. George Hill. TO A TIP-UP Slim, unbalanced bird, A-tip upon the sands, Here's a friendly word, A mental shaking-hands. Ludicrous enough, But not more so than I : Of such teet'ring stuff Is all mortality. John Vance Cheney. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 217 THE SANDPIPER Across the narrow beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I ; And fast I gather, bit by bit, The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry, The wild waves reach their hands for it, The "wild wind raves, the tide runs high, As up and down the beach we flit, — One little sandpiper and I. Above our heads the sullen clouds Scud black and swift across the sky ; .Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds Stand out the white light-houses high. Almost as far as eye can reach I see the close-reefed vessels fly, As fast we flit along the beach, — One little sandpiper and I. I watch him as he skims along, Uttering his sweet and mournful cry 3 He starts not at my fitful song, Or flash of fluttering drapery. He has no thought of any wrong ; He scans me with a fearless eye. Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong, The little sandpiper and I. 2l8 THROUGH THE YEAR Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night, When the loosed storm breaks furiously? My driftwood fire will burn so bright ! To what warm shelter canst thou fly? I do not fear for thee, though wroth The tempest rushes through the sky ; For are we not God's children both, Thou, little sandpiper, and I? Celia Thaxter. SANDPIPERS The sandpipers trip on the glassy beach, Ready to mount and fly ; Whenever a ripple reaches their feet They rise with a timorous cry. Take care, they pipe, take care, take care, For this is a treacherous main, And though you may sail so deftly out, You may never come home again. Duncan Campbell Scott. THE LITTLE BEACH SANDERLING By the beach border, where the breeze Comes freighted from the briny seas, By sandy bar and weedy rock I frequent meet thy roving flock ; Now hovering o'er the bending sedge, Now gather'd at the ocean edge ; Probing the sand for shrimps and shells, Or worms marine in hidden cells, WITH BIRDS AND POETS 219 A restless and inconstant band, Forever flitting o'er the sand. Sandpiper ! — haunting every shore Where'er the waves of ocean roar; Old voyagers that roam the deep Tell that your dusky pinions sweep O'er the remotest islands set In ocean's emerald coronet. Isaac McClellan. THE LITTLE BEACH-BIRD Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea, Why takest thou its melancholy voice ? ,And with that boding cry Along the breakers fly ? Oh ! rather, bird, with me Through the fair land rejoice ! Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale, As driven by a beating storm at sea ; Thy cry is weak and scared, As if thy mates had shared The doom of us : thy wail, — What doth it bring to me ? Thou call' st along the sand, and haunt' st the surge, Restless and sad ; as if, in strange accord With the motion and the roar Of waves that drive to shore, One spirit did ye urge, — The Mystery, — the Word. 220 THROUGH THE YEAR Of thousands, thou, both sepulchre and pall Old Ocean art ! A requiem o'er the dead, From out thy gloomy cells, A tale of mourning tells, — Tells of man's woe and fall, His sinless glory fled. Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring Thy spirit never more. Come, quit with me the shore For gladness and the light, Where birds of summer sing ! Richard H. Dana. THE LOON Tameless in his stately pride, along the lake of islands, Tireless speeds the lonely loon upon his diving track ; — Emerald and gold emblazon, satin-like, his shoulder, Ebony and pearl inlay, mosaic-like, his back. Sailing, thus sailing, thus sails the brindled loon, When the wave rolls black with storm, or sleeps in summer noon. Sailing through the islands, oft he lifts his loud bravura ; — Clarion-clear it rings, and round etherial trumpets swell ; — Upward looks the feeding deer, he sees the aiming hunter, WITH BIRDS AND POETS 221 Up and then away the loon has warned his comrade well. Sailing, thus sailing, thus sails the brindled loon, Pealing on the solitude his sounding bugle-tune. Sacred is the loon with eye of wild and flashing crimson ; Eyes that saw the Spirit Hah-wen-ne-yo through the air Falling, faint, a star — a shaft of light — a shape of splendor — Falling on the deep that closed that shining shape to bear. Sailing, thus sailing, thus sailed the brindled loon With the grand shape falling all a-glitter from the moon. Long before the eagle furls his pinion on the pine-top, Long before the blue-bird gleams in sapphire through the glen, Long before the lily blots the shoal with golden apples, Leaves the loon his southern sun to sail the lake again. Sailing, then sailing, then sails the brindled loon, Leading with his shouting call the Spring's awakened croon. Long after bitter chills have pierced the windy water, Long after Autumn dies all dolphin like away, Long after coat of russet dons the deer for winter, Plies the solitary loon his cold and curdled bay. Sailing, there sailing, there sails the brindled loon, Till in chains no more to him the lake yields watery boon. Alfred B. Street. 222 THROUGH THE YEAR A NOCTURN While bright Hesper leans from heaven Through the soft, dove-colored even, While the grass -bird calleth peace On the fields that have release From the sickle and the rake. Still, wherever thou dost pass, Chimes the cricket in the grass ; And the plover's note is heard, — Moonlight's wild enchanted bird, Flitting, wakeful and forlorn, Round the meadows lately shorn. Edith Thomas. THE RAIN-CROW 1 I Can freckled August, — drowsing warm and blonde Beside a wheat-stock in the white-topped mead, In her hot hair the ox-eyed daisies wound, — bird of rain, lend aught but sleepy heed To thee ? when no plumed weed, no feather'd seed Blows by her ; and no ripple breaks the pond, That gleams like flint between its rim of grasses, Through which the dragon-fly forever passes Like splintered diamond. II Drouth weights the trees, and from the farmhouse eaves The locust, pulse-beat of the summer day, 1 Rain-crow is one of the popular names for the cuckoo. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 223 Throbs ; and the lane, that shambles under leaves Limp with the heat — a league of rutty way — Is lost in dust ; and sultry scents of hay Breathe from the panting meadows heaped with sheaves — ■ Now, now, O bird, what hint is there of rain, In thirsty heaven or on burning plain, That thy keen eye perceives ? Ill But thou art right. Thou prophesiest true. For hardly hast thou ceased thy forecasting, When, up the western fierceness of scorched blue, Great water-carrier winds their buckets bring Brimming with freshness. How their dippers ring And flash and rumble ! lavishing dark dew On corn and forest-land, that, streaming wet, Their hilly backs against the downpour set, Like giants vague in view. IV The butterfly, safe under leaf and flower, Has found a roof, knowing how true thou art ; The bumble-bee, within the last half-hour, Has ceased to hug the honey to its heart ; While in the barnyard, under shed and cart, Brood-hens have housed. — But I, who scorned thy power, Barometer of the birds, — like August there, — Beneath a beech, dripping from foot to hair, Like some drenched truant, cower. Madison Cawein. AUTUMN Through the trees The golden robin moves. The purple finch, That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle, And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud, From cottage roofs, the warbling blue-bird sings. Autumn. — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Silently overhead the hen-hawk sails, With watchful, ?neasuring eye, and for his quarry waits. The sobered robin, hunger-silent now, Seeks cedar-berries blue, his autumn cheer. An Indian Summer Reverie. — JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. The single crow a single caw lets fall. An Indian Summer Reverie.— James Russell Lowell. 226 ' %^#P SEPTEMBER From the reeds would spring, Whirring, the meadow-wren, and start and stare And sputter, lighting front their bending tops, As if indignant and no less amazed That I should thus, with causeless and ill-timed Approach, upon the privacy intrude And urgent duties of her precious life ; Or meditative heron, perched upon The timber-head of some old hulk , half sunk And strewn with barnacles, would slowly thrust Above the sedge his long, lank neck : then crouch And floundering upwards, with an awkward flap Of his dank wing, and knot of sea-grass dangling From his long legs, thrown backward and uncouth, Saunter away to some more quiet haunt ; Or sentry crow, caught sleeping at his watch, Bestirred himself and called with hurried croak Unto his fellozvs, that with clamorous cry Rose, and their train winged blackening to the wood. Anon, a troop of noisy, roving jays, Whisking their gaudy top-knots, would surprise And seize upon the top of some tall tree, Shrieking, as if on purpose to enjoy The consternation of the noontide stillness. Ramblings in Autumn. — George Hill. Hast thou named all the birds without a gun ? Forbearance. — Ralph Waldo Emerson. 228 WITH BIRDS AND POETS 229 AUTUMN On slumberous wings the vulture tried his flight, The dove scarce heard his singing mate's complaint ; And, like a star slow drowning in the light, The village church vane seemed to pale and faint. The sentinel cock upon the hillside crew — Crew thrice, — and all was stiller than before ; Silent, till some replying warden blew His alien horn, and then was heard no more. Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall crest, Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young, And, where the oriole swung her swaying nest, By every light wind like a censer swung ; Where sang the noisy martins of the eaves, The busy swallows circling ever near, Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, An early harvest and a plenteous year; Where every bird that waked the vernal feast Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn, To warn the reapers of the rosy east, — All now was songless, empty, and forlorn. Alone from out the stubble piped the quail, And croaked the crow through all the dreamy gloom ; Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale, Made echo to the distant cottage loom. The Closing Scene. —Thomas Buchanan Read. Permission of J. B. Lippincott Co. 230 THROUGH THE YEAR The last of summer's melodists are fled, Their nests are tenantless, their songs are still. Parting of Summer. — Charles L. Hildreth. The robin, that was busy all the June Before the sun had kissed the topmost bough, Catching our hearts up in his golden tune, Has given place to the brown cricket now. Autumn.— Alice Cary. TO A CITY PIGEON Stoop to my window, thou beautiful dove ; Thy daily visits have touched my love. I watch thy coming, and list the note That stirs so low in thy mellow throat, And my joy is high To catch the glance of thy gentle eye. Why dost thou sit on the heated eaves, And forsake the wood with its freshen'd leaves? Why dost haunt the sultry street, When the paths of the forest are cool and sweet ? How canst thou bear This noise of people — this sultry air ? Thou alone of the feather'd race Dost look unscared on the human face ; Thou alone, with a wing to flee, Dost love with man in his haunts to be ; And the " gentle dove " Has become a name for trust and love. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 23 1 A holy gift is thine, sweet bird ! Thou'rt named with childhood's earliest word ! Thou'rt link'd with all that is fresh and wild In the prison'd thoughts of the city child ; And thy glossy wings Are its brightest image of moving things. It is no light chance. Thou art set apart Wisely by Him who has tamed thy heart, To stir the love for the bright and fair That else were seal'd in this crowded air ; I sometimes dream Angelic rays from thy pinions stream. Come then, ever, when daylight leaves The page I read, to my humble eaves, And wash thy breast in the hollow spout, And murmur thy low sweet music out ! I hear and see Lessons of heaven, sweet bird, in thee ! N. P. Willis. 232 THROUGH THE YEAR THE BELFRY PIGEON " Mine eyes are sick of this perpetual flow Of people, and my heart of one sad thought." Shelley. On the cross beam under the Old South bell The nest of a pigeon is builded well. In summer and winter that bird is there, Out and in with the morning air : I love to see him track the street, With his wary eye and active feet ; And I often watch him as he springs, Circling the steeple with easy wings, Till across the dial his shade has passed, And the belfry edge is gained at last. 'Tis a bird I love', with its brooding note, And the trembling throb in its mottled throat ; There's a human look in its swelling breast, And a gentle curve of its lowly crest ; And I often stop with the fear I feel — He runs so close to the rapid wheel. Whatever is rung on that noisy bell, — Chime of the hour or funeral knell, — The dove in the belfry must hear it well. When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon, When the sexton cheerily rings for noon, When the clock strikes clear at morning light, When the child is waked with " nine at night," When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air, Filling the spirit with tones of prayer, — WITH BIRDS AND POETS 233 Whatever tale in the bell is heard, He broods on his folded feet unstirred, Or rising half in his rounded nest, He takes the time to smooth his breast, Then drops again with filmed eyes, And sleeps as the last vibration dies. Sweet bird ! I would that I could be A hermit in the crowd like thee ! With wings to fly to wood and glen, Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men ; And daily with unwilling feet, I tread, like thee, the crowded street ; But, unlike me, when day is o'er, Thou canst dismiss the world and soar, Or, at a half-felt wish for rest, Canst smooth thy feathers on thy breast, And drop, forgetful, to thy nest. I would that in such wings of gold I could my weary heart upfold ; I would I could look down unmoved (Unloving as I am unloved) , And while the world throngs on beneath, Smooth down my cares and calmly breathe ; And never sad with others' sadness, And never glad with others' gladness, Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime, And, lapp'd in quiet, bide my time. N. P. Willis. 234 THROUGH THE YEAR THE VULTURE All day long we roam, we roam, My shadow fleet and I ; One searches all the land and sea, And one the trackless sky ; But when the taint of death ascends My airy flight to greet, As friends around the festal board, We meet ! we meet ! we meet ! Ah ! none can read the signs we read, No eye can fathom the gales, No tongue can whisper our secret deed, For dead men tell no tales. The spot on the plains is miles away ; But our wings are broad and fleet, — The wave-tossed speck in the eye of the day Is far — but we meet ! we meet ! The voice of the battle is haste, oh, haste ! And down the wind we speed ; The voice of the wreck moans up from the deep, And we search the rank seaweed. The maiden listens the livelong day For the fall of her lover's feet ; She wonders to see us speeding by, — She would die if she saw us meet ! l'envoi. Sweeping in circles, my shadow and I, Leaving no mark on the land or sky, When the double circles are all complete, At the bedside of death we meet ! we meet ! Harry Stillwell Edwards. -w'.m. Ha Turkey Vulture WITH BIRDS AND POETS 235 THE DUSKY DUCK September nights have scarcely felt The first cool breath of autumn time, Ere high the black duck pinions fan Our shore-line, in their flight sublime. At first these swift fowl skim the cloud, And high in lessening circles sweep ; Then slow to lonely bays descend, Glad to repose their wings in sleep. And so for passing weeks they haunt , The inland marsh and muddy creek, Where in the shallows or the grass, Their pastime or their food they seek. Most shy, at midday they disport In ocean surf or ample bay ; But when the evening shades pervade And fades the twilight of the day, Then with a soaring flight they rise And seek some lonely marsh remote, Some salt-pool in the meadow scoop'd ; And here their quacking numbers float, And here the watchful fowler lies In ambush for the dusky prize. Isaac McLellan. OCTOBER. OCTOBER When naught of song is heard, Save the jay laughing while all Nature grieves, Or the lone chirp of some forgotten bird Among the fallen leaves. Fallen Leaves. —John James Piatt. Out of the frosty north, like Indian arrows, In never faltering flight the wild ducks flew, And from the windy fields the summer sparrows Reluctantly their feathery tribes withdrew. October. — James Newton Mathews. The little birds upon the hillside lonely, Flit noiselessly along from spray to spray, Silent as a sweet, wandering thought, that only Shows its bright wings, and softly glides away. A Still Day in Autumn. —Mrs. Sarah H. Whitman. 238 WITH BIRDS AND POETS 239 BIRDS IN OCTOBER When October sears the oak leaves Silence settles on the forest. Southward have the swallows darted, Southward sped the warbler legions, Southward are the thrushes flocking, Crows complaining seek the Ocean. With the snowflakes o'er the mountains Hasten past the hawks from Northland, Speed along the titmice, juncos, White-crowned sparrows, wrens, and creepers, Tiny kinglets, sweet-voiced bluebirds, All in eager search for havens Where the touch of winter kills not. Close behind them come the crossbill, Come with joyous notes the redpolls, Come pine grosbeaks, too confiding, Come the hosts from Arctic nestings. The Ruffed Grouse. — Frank Bolles. O JAY Jay ! — Blue -jay ! — What are you trying to say? 1 remember, in the spring You pretended you could sing ; But your voice is now still queerer, And as yet you've come no nearer To a song. 240 THROUGH THE YEAR In fact, to sum the matter, I never heard a flatter Failure than your doleful clatter. Don't you think it's wrong? It was sweet to hear your note, I'll not deny, When April set pale clouds afloat O'er the blue tides of sky, And 'mid the wind's triumphant drums You in your white and azure coat, A herald proud, came forth to cry, " The royal summer comes ! " But now that autumn's here, And the leaves curl up in sheer Disgust, And the cold rains fringe the pine, You really must Stop that supercilious whine — Or you'll be shot, by some mephitic Angry critic. You don't fulfil your early promise : You're not the smartest Kind of artist, Any more than poor blind Tom is. Yet somehow, still, There's meaning in your screaming bill. What are you trying to say? WITH BIRDS AND POETS 24 1 Sometimes your piping is delicious, And then again it's simply vicious ; Though on the whole the varying jangle Weaves round me an entrancing tangle Of memories grave or joyous : Things to weep or laugh at ; Love that lived at a hint, or Days so sweet, they'd cloy us ; Nights I have spent with friends ; — Glistening groves of winter, And the sound of vanished feet That walked by the ripening wheat ; With other things . . . Not the half that Your cry familiar blends Can I name, for it is mostly Very ghostly ; — Such mixed-up things your voice recalls, With its peculiar quirks and falls. Possibly, then, your meaning plain, Is that your harsh and broken strain Tallies best with a world of pain. Well, I'll admit There's merit in a voice that's truthful : Yours is not honey-sweet nor youthful, But querulously fit. And it we cannot sing, we'll say Something to the purpose, Jay ! George Parsons Lathrop. 242 THROUGH THE YEAR THE BLUE JAY His eye is bright as burnished steel, His note a quick defiant cry ; Harsh as a hinge his grating squeal Sounds from the keen wind sweeping by. Rains never dim his smooth blue coat, The winter never troubles him. No fog puts hoarseness in his throat, Or makes his merry eyes grow dim. His cry at morning is a shout, His wing is subject to his heart. Of fear he knows not — doubt Did not draw his sailing-chart. He is an universal emigre" ; His foot is set in every land. He greets me by gray Casco bay, And laughs across the Texas sand. In heat or cold, in storm or sun He lives unfearingly, and when he dies He folds his feet up one by one And turns a last look at the skies. He is the true American ! he fears No journey and no wood or wall ; And in the desert, toiling voyagers Take heart of courage from his call. Hamlin Garland. Blue Jay WITH BIRDS AND POETS 243 THE BLUE JAY From among Chocorua's tenants, From among the birds of Crowlands, One in all eyes is a villain. Loathed, detested, hated, dreaded, Known to be a thief and ruffian, Known to be a foul assassin, Known to be a sneak and coward, Hated doubly for his beauty. Crows are open in marauding, Crows are black and bold and bragging ; Owls confine their crimes to twilight Or the hours of moonlit silence ; Hawks in highest heaven hover, Soar in sight of all their victims : None can charge them with deception, All their crimes are deeds of daring. Clad in blue with snow-white trimmings, Clean and smooth in every feather, Plumed and crested like a dandy, Keen of vision, strong of muscle, Shrewd in mimicry and dodging, Knowing every copse and thicket, Warm in snow and cool in summer, Is the blue jay still a villain ? Outlawed by all bird tribunals, As a wretch disguised, he's branded, Shunned by every feathered creature ; Yet he prospers, man admires him. 244 THROUGH THE YEAR Through the tedious months of winter Round the corn-barn's step he lingers, Boldly down among the poultry Comes he to secure their kernels ; Through the barb'ries, through the cedars, Prowls he searching for their berries, In the spruces, in the hemlocks, Cocoons from the bark detaching. But so soon as in the Maytime Eggs are laid and young are hatching, Berries, buds, and worms rejecting, Turns this scourge to sweeter morsels ; Woe awaits the early songster Whose uncovered nest he chances To discover as he's sneaking Through the forest seeking plunder ; Wise the nuthatch and the titmouse, Wise the bluebird and the downy, To conceal their nests in tree-trunks Where this monster cannot find them ; Ask the vireo what happens, Ask the junco where her eggs are, Ask the thrush and ask the robin What assassin slew their young ones. Hundreds perish in the season, Egg and young of birds as useful As their slayer is unfriendly To the ways and plans of farmers. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 245 Retribution sometimes follows On the footsteps of this monster. Crows will fly among the savins, Search among the bristling branches, Find the nests of roots and bark strips Armed with barbs and twined with brambles, Full of eggs or young just gaping — Dainty morsels those for crows' tongues. Harsh the clamor when the robber Comes to find his own home wasted, Wild the screams and fierce the anger, Vain the flights around the nesting. Man admires him for his feathers, Loves to watch him in the winter Boldly fly among the poultry, • Snatching golden kernels from them, But his peers alone can judge him Justly, clearly, on his merits. One and all they call him outlaw, Hate him, loathe him, fear him, spurn him. Be his plumage light and dainty He is cousin to the raven, Near of kin is he to Corvus, Black his heart, and black his kindred, False his colors, false his nature. All his beauty is delusion, All his tricks are tricks of darkness ; Grim Chocorua through his cloud veil Ever looks askance upon him. Frank Bolles. 246 THROUGH THE YEAR RETURN OF THE GULLS Far out upon the treeless sweep Of sun-smit plain, there come And go great nights of gulls. In hot still noon, in roar of wind, In mist of evening — or in cold clear dawn They flit in easeful flight above the swash Of uncut wheat, glittering like flakes Of snow in flaming sunlight. They are far from the sea — How came they here, these children Of the raw, salt winds of ocean ? All day they wheel and dip And rise again — complaining, calling In querulous voices, calling, asking For something lost. In keen October dawns They move in myriads, with the rolling sweep Of foam-lined waves of water, Close to the sod in search of food. At night they settle upon the breast Of little alkaline lakes and sit and swing In the soft wash of the water, And talk of things far off. In the Winter they hasten South. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 247 For ages they have journeyed thus, Century by century, while the low land rose And the water wasted — aeons, and still They came and went. Generations died, But the young preserved the custom. And now, though the land is hot And the sea is sunk to an alkaline pool, They come and come, because they bear Within their faithful brains the habits Of a thousand thousand years. Hamlin Garland. THE SEA-GULL Oh, had' I but thy wings when storms arise, Gray spirit of the sea and of the shore ! When the wild waters round thee rave and roar, Calm art thou 'neath the tumult of the skies. Thy plume hath spanned the deep's immensities ; Above her vast and ever- shifting floor Thou, on thy gray wing roaming, still dost soar, Forever drawn to where the distance lies. From the dim sea's unknowable extreme Thou comest, wandering through lone water-ways To cliffs empurpled and cerulean bays ; Then, rocking near some cavern's emerald gleam, Thou seem'st the soul of halcyonian days — The restful Spirit of the sea supreme. At the Gates of Song. —Lloyd Mifflin. 248 THROUGH THE YEAR THE EAGLE An eagle in this lovely scene Was perched upon a hillock green, Where strew'd remains of bow and spear With here and there a scattered bone, Bared by the frost and rain, made known An Indian burial-place was here. And as he stood, his form stretch'd high, And from his keen and martial eye Glances around he shot, He seem'd, within the halo-light With ruffled plumes, and crown of white, The monarch of the spot. Balancing on his outspread wing, At length he look'd as if to spring, While higher arch'd his kingly neck ; Rustled the leaves — and with a shriek He swept up, pointing high his beak, And dwindled to a fading speck. The Indian's Vigil. — Alfred Billings Street. THE EAGLE We touch the green marge ; hark ! a shriek shrill and loud, A bird with huge wings, like a fragment of cloud, Shoots swift from the gorge, sweeps around, then on high WITH BIRDS AND POETS 249 Cleaves his way? till he seems a dim spot in the sky ; Then stooping in circles, contracting his rings, He swoops to a pine-top and settles his wings ; An eagle ! an eagle ! how kingly his form ! He seems fit to revel in sunshine and storm ; What terrible talons, what strength in that beak, His red rolling eye-balls the proud monarch speak ; He casts looks, superb and majestical, down ; His pine for a throne, and his crest for a crown ; He stirs not a feather, though shoutings arise, But still flings beneath mute contempt at our cries ; A branch is hurl'd upward, whirls near him, but vain, He looks down his eloquent, glorious disdain, Till he chooses to spread his broad pinions of gray And launch in majestic, slow motion away. A Visit to Mongaup Falls. — Alfred Billings Street. PARTRIDGES Under the alders, along the brooks, Under the hemlocks, along the hill, Spreading their plumage with furtive looks, Daintily pecking the leaves at will ; Whir ! and they flit from the startled sight, — And the forest is silent, the air is still. Crushing the leaves 'neath our careless feet, Snapping the twigs with a heavy tread, Dreamy October is late and sweet, And stooping we gather a blossom dead ; Boom ! and our heart has a thunderous beat As the gray apparition flits overhead. 250 THROUGH THE YEAR Up from the path with a thunderous roar- That startles the dreamer amid his dreams, Till he peers into vistas that open before For the flash of the plumage with silver gleams : Why, modest hermit, thus fearful of him Who would share in the secrets of forests and streams ? I lie on the windrows of leaves and gaze At thy innocent preening of serrate wing, Or watch where the last crimson colors blaze, And the red autumn leaves to the maple cling, Too fond of this life myself, to destroy The motion and life I am worshipping. Alonzo Teall Worden. COOT SHOOTING When late October's frosty breath Blows over color' d woodlands gay; From the remotest Labrador, From Baffin's and from Hudson's Bay, The streaming migratory flocks Of sable coot their journey urge, Following the coast-line's devious sweep To Florida's remotest verge. Since earliest spring-time they have sought The utmost northern isle and shoal ; Their chosen haunt and breeding-ground, In latitudes beneath the Pole. The wild-geese and the brent-geese there In swamps impervious build their nest WITH BIRDS AND POETS 25 1 (So Northern fishermen declare), Where none may reach them to molest. But the shy coot-tribes o'er the sands And reeds of rocky islands throng ; There frame the nest and rear the young, And linger all the summer long. Off every jutting reef and point Thrust seaward from New England's shore, The wild-fowl shooters spread the sail And vex the waters with the oar. There, anchor'd in a curving line, Two score of tossing boats extend, Each fowler prompt with uprais'd gun - To thin the flocks, where'er they tend. The old-wife, swiftest on the wing, The shelldrake pied, and speckled loon, Join in the ocean voyaging, And flank each migrating platoon ; Nor cease their sea-flights till the breeze Of summer climates warms the seas. In Massachusetts Bay, and far Where Cape Cod spreads its yellow sand, By every creek and cape of Maine, River and estuary grand, In Vineyard and Long Island Sound, And by its southern ocean shore, Their countless myriads are found, Winging as far as "billows pour. 252 THROUGH THE YEAR By Jersey coast and Delaware Bay, From Cape Charles to York River tides, The black coot plies his dusky wing, And o'er the tossing ocean glides. By Gardiner's and by Shelter Isle, Far out on sandy bar and shoal, These swarming water-fowl disport Wherever salty billows roll. And where Peconic spreads its sheet Engirdled by its hills of green, The coot and whistlers find a haunt In shelter'd reach and cove serene. Isaac McLellan. FLOCKING OF THE BIRDS October frosts have chilled the air, And turned the leaves to gold and red ; The birds are flocking here and there, And wheeling swiftly overhead — Dark-vestured swallows, lithe and strong, And sparrows bold and finches gay, And warblers making joyous song As new-formed columns move away. From broken fences, from the ground, From trees and meadows, ev'rywhere, We see them circle round and round, And form their armies in the air ; Dark, swaying lines that rise and fall WITH BIRDS AND POETS 253 And cast long shadows on the grass, And sharp and clear we hear the call Of leaders as the columns pass. And all about, the hills are crowned With woods that seem to burn and glow, And purple asters, from the ground, Look up and watch the armies go ; Long, swaying ranks of swallows strong, And bobolinks, alert and gay, And warblers, full of life and song — All moving swiftly on their way. And silently, among the trees, The thrushes flock and disappear ; We hear their notes upon the breeze, And then — the singers are not here. The autumn wanes, and kinglets go, Sweet-voiced and knightly in their way, And all the birds our summers know, They flock and leave us day by day. The autumn wanes, and days are cold, The northern winds are sharp and keen, Dull brown assumes the place of gold, And dark and gloomy skies are seen ; And yonder hawk, who fainter grows Above the hills and grazing herds, Is symbol of the season's close, The last of the departing birds. Frank H. Sweet. 254 THROUGH THE YEAR THE FLIGHT OF THE BIRDS Whither away, Robin, Whither away? Is it through envy of the maple-leaf, Whose blushes mock the crimson of thy breast, Thou wilt not stay ? The summer days were long, yet all too brief The happy season thou hast been our guest : Whither away? Whither away, Bluebird, Whither away ? The blast is chill, yet in the upper sky Thou still canst find the color of thy wing, The hue of May. Warbler, why speed thy southern flight? ah, why, Thou too, whose song first told us of the Spring ? Whither away? Whither away, Swallow, Whither away? Canst thou no longer tarry in the North, Here, where our roof so well hath screened thy nest ? Not one short day ? Wilt thou — as if thou human wert — go forth And wanton far from them who love thee best ? Whither away? Edmund Clarence Stedman. NOVEMBER Then stood we shivering in the night air cold, And heard a sound as if a chariot rolled Groaning adown the heavens. And lo ! overhead Twice, thrice the wild geese cried ; then on they sped, C^er field and wood and bay, toward Southern seas ; So low they flew that on the forest trees Their strong wind splashed a spray of moonlight white ; So straight they flew, so fast their steady flight. True as an arrow they sailed down the night ; Like lights blown out they vanished from the sight. Anon. With mingled sound of horns and bells, A far -heard clang, the wild geese fly, Storm-sent, from Arctic moors and fells, Like a great arrow through the sky, Two dusky lines converged in one, Chasing the Southward-flying sun ; While the brave snow-bird and the hardy jay Call to them from the pines, as if to bid them stay. The Last Walk in Autumn. — John Greenleaf Whittier. The robin atid the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. The Death of the Flowers. — William Cullen Bryant. 256 WITH BIRDS AND POETS 257 THE BLUEBIRD In the very spring, Nay, in the bluster of March, or haply before, The bluebird comes, and a- wing Or alight, seems evermore For song that is sweet and soft. His footprints oft Make fretwork along the snow When the weather is bleak ablow, When his hardihood by cold is pinched full sore. Then deep in the fall, In the Indian- summer while, in the dreamy days, When the errant songsters all Grow slack in songful ways, You may hear his warble still By field or hill ; Until, with an azure rush Of motion, music — hush ! He is off, he is mutely whelmed in the southern haze ! Richard Burton. A BAND OF BLUEBIRDS (in autumn) O happy band of bluebirds, Brave prophets of the Spring, Amid the tall and tufted cane, How blithesomely you sing ! 258 THROUGH THE YEAR What message haunts your music 'Mid Autumn's dusky reign? You tell us Nature stores her seed To give them back in grain ! Your throats are gleeful fountains, Through which a song-tide flows ; Your voices greet me in the woods, On every wind that blows ! I dream that Heaven invites you To bid the Earth " good-by : " For in your wings you seem to hold A portion of the sky ! O happy band of bluebirds, You could not long remain To flit across the fading fields And glorify the grain. . . . You leave melodious memories, Whose sweetness thrills me through : Ah, if my songs were such as yours, They'd almost touch the Blue ! William H. Hayne. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 259 THE AUTUMN FLIGHT From the strongholds of the North When the Ice-King marches forth, The southern lands to harry with his host, The fowl with clang and cry Come speeding through the sky, And steering for the shelter on our coast. I hear the swish and swing Of the fleetly moving wing, I see the forms drawn faintly 'gainst the sky, As the rush of feathered legions From out the frozen regions, Sail onward 'neath the silent stars on high. Like a cloud that's borne along By a mighty wind, and strong, Then parting, disappears in vapor light, They glide o'er lake and sea, O'er mountain, moor, and lea, And passing swiftly vanish in the night. They seek a sunny clime, A land of blooms and thyme, The tranquil surface round the Southern key ; A home of peace and rest On the friendly water's breast Of lake or flowing river, or the murmuring sea, The gently heaving bosom of the sea. Wild Fowl of the United States. — Daniel G. Elliot. 260 THROUGH THE YEAR THE FLIGHT OF THE CANADA GEESE Honk ! honk ! on stormy wings they cleave the upper air, On gusty breeze, above the seas, their onward cohorts fare ; They come from frosty solitudes, where broods the Arctic night, Where deserts grim, spread vast and dim, in the auroral light. The Esquimaux, with bended bow, fast paddling his canoe, Their flocks hath chas'd o'er icy waste of waters heavenly blue; On frozen shore of Labrador the Indian's steel hath sped, But vain the shaft, and vain the craft, and vain the fowler's lead. In twinkling gleam of cold moonbeam, their dusky files I trace, In wedge -like throng, in column long, they speed the tireless race ; O'er craggy mountain-sides, and over torrent tides, The shadow of each column in swift procession glides. O'er the far-resounding surge, in the dim horizon's verge, I see their dark battalions on winnowing pinions urge ; O'er Lake Superior's sheet their clanging pinions beat, Where Western plain and golden grain spread sumptu- ous pastures sweet. The bleak November cloud casts down its snowy shroud, And the throbbings and the sobbings of the winds are swelling loud ; \t \ YY.TTT.H Canada Goose WITH BIRDS AND POETS 26 1 The snowdrift hides the grass, and the lakes are crystal glass, So warn'd the geese-flock legions to gentler regions pass, — To the balmy Southern clime, where the orange and the lime, With blossom'd fruits, perennial shoots, are ever in their prime : To paradise ambrosial, to banks of spic'd perfume, Where forests wide and river-side are prodigal with bloom. Isaac McLellan. FLIGHT OF THE WILD GEESE Rambling along the marshes, On the bank of Assabet, Sounding myself as to how it went, Praying that I might not forget, And all uncertain Whether I was in the right, Toiling to lift Time's curtain, And if I burnt the strongest light ; Suddenly, High in the air, I heard the travelled geese Their overture prepare. Stirred above the patent ball, The wild geese flew, Nor near so wild as that doth me befall, Or, swollen Wisdom, you. 262 THROUGH THE YEAR In the front there fetched a leader, Him behind the line spread out, And waved about, As it was near night, When these air-pilots stop their flight. Cruising off the shoal dominion Where we sit, Depending not on their opinion, Nor hiving sops of wit ; Geographical in tact, Naming not a pond or river, Pulled with twilight down in fact, In the reeds to quack and quiver, There they go, Spectators at the play below, Southward in a row. Cannot land and map the stars The indifferent geese, Nor taste the sweetmeats in odd jars, Nor speculate and freeze ; Rancid weasands need be well, Feathers glossy, quills in order, Starts this train, yet rings no bell ; Steam is raised without recorder. "Up, my feathered fowl, all," — Saith the goose commander, " Brighten your bills, and flirt your pinions, My toes are nipped, — let us render WITH BIRDS AND POETS 263 Ourselves in soft Guatemala, Or suck puddles in Campeachy, Spitzbergen-cake cuts very frosty, And the tipple is not leechy. " Let's brush loose for any creek, There lurk fish and fly, Condiments to fat the weak, Inundate the pie. Flutter not about a place, Ye concomitants of space ! " Mute the listening nations stand On that dark receding land ; How faint their villages and towns, Scattered on the misty downs ! A meeting-house Appears no bigger than a mouse. How long? Never is a question asked, While a throat can lift the song, Or a flapping wing be tasked. All the grandmothers about Hear the orators of Heaven, Then put on their woolens stout, And cower o'er the hearth at even ; And the children stare at the sky, And laugh to see the long black line so high ! 264 THROUGH THE YEAR Then once more I hear them say, — " 'Tis a smooth, delightful road, Difficult to lose the way, And a trifle for a load." 'Twas our forte to pass for this, Proper sack of sense to borrow, Wings and legs, and bills that clatter, And the horizon of To-morrow. William Ellery Channing, of Concord. CANVAS-BACK AND RED-HEADS In sharp November, from afar, From Northern river, stream, and lake, The flocks of noble canvas-back Their migratory journeys make ; The frosty morning finds them spread Along the flats of Barnegat, Where grows the Valisneria root, The duck-grass with its russet thread ; But chief where Chesapeake receives From Susquehanna brackish tides. By calm Potomac and the James, Feeding at will from morn till eve, 'Mid those aquatic pastures green, The ribbon' d grass and bulbous root, Where slant the reedy edges lean. By thousands there the wild-fowl come To taste the rich, delicious fare ; The red-head and the canvas-back, The widgeon with his plumage rare ; WITH BIRDS AND POETS 265 The ruddy duck, the buffle-head, The broad-bill and Canadian goose, Loving o'er placid shoal or cove Their flapping pinions to unloose. Through all the day, dispers'd around, They swim and circle o'er the bay; At eve, in congregated flocks, To mouths of creeks they take their way ; While some a wakeful vigil keep, Others at anchor float asleep. When winter early sharp sets in, And frozen is the river's face, To its salt confluence with the bay ,The flocks seek out their feeding-place. And where across the ice a pool Of open water they discern, The hungry flocks their flight suspend And toward the friendly pasture turn And there the lurking gunner waits (Amid the ice-blocks hid from sight), With heavy gun and deadly aim To thin the numbers that alight. Isaac McLellan. CANVAS-BACK DUCK The far-famed Canvas-backs at once we know, Their broad, flat bodies wrapped in pencilled snow ; The burnished chestnut o'er their. necks that shone, Spread deep'ning round each breast a sable zone. The Foresters. — Alexander Wilson. 266 THROUGH THE YEAR MY AVIARY Through my north window, in the wintry weather, — My airy oriel on the river shore, — I watch the sea-fowl as they flock together Where late the boatman flashed his dripping oar. The gull, high floating, like a sloop unladen, Lets the loose water waft him as it will ; The duck, round-breasted as a rustic maiden, Paddles and plunges, busy, busy still. I see the solemn gulls in council sitting On some broad ice-floe pondering long and late, While overhead the home-bound ducks are flitting, And leave the tardy conclave in debate, Those weighty questions in their breasts revolving Whose deeper meaning science never learns, Till at some reverend elder's look dissolving, The speechless senate silently adjourns. But when along the waves the shrill north-easter Shrieks through the laboring coaster's shrouds, " Be- ware ! " The pale bird, kindling like a Christmas feaster When some wild chorus shakes the vinous air, Flaps from the leaden wave in fierce rejoicing, Feels heaven's dumb lightning thrill his torpid nerves, WITH BIRDS AND POETS 267 Now on the blast his whistling plumage poising, Now wheeling, whirling in fantastic curves. Such is our gull ; a gentleman of leisure, Less fleshed than feathered ; bagged you'll find him such; His virtue silence ; his employment pleasure ; Not bad to look at, and not good for much. What of our duck ? He has some high-bred cousins, — His Grace the Canvas-back, My Lord the Brant, — Anas and Anser, — both served up by dozens, At Boston's Rocher, half-way to Nahant. As for himself, he seems alert and thriving, — Grubs up a living somehow — what, who knows ? Crabs? mussels? weeds? — Look quick ! there's one just diving ! Flop ! Splash ! his white breast glistens — down he goes ! And while he's under — just about a minute — I take advantage of the fact to say His fishy carcass has no virtue in it The gunning idiot's worthless hire to pay. He knows you ! " sportsmen " from suburban alleys, Stretched under seaweed in the treacherous punt ; Knows every lazy, shiftless lout that sallies Forth to waste powder — as he says, to "hunt." 268 THROUGH THE YEAR I watch you with a patient satisfaction, Well pleased to discount your predestined luck ; The float that figures in your sly transaction Will carry back a goose, but not a duck. Shrewd is our bird ; not easy to outwit him ! Sharp is the outlook of those pin-head eyes ; Still, he is mortal, and a shot may hit him ; One cannot always miss him if he tries. Look ! there's a young one, dreaming not of danger; Sees a flat log come floating down the stream ; Stares undismayed upon the harmless stranger ; Ah ! were all strangers harmless as they seem ! Habet I a leaden shower his breast has shattered ; Vainly he flutters, not again to rise ; His soft white plumes along the waves are scattered ; Helpless the wing that braved the tempest lies. He sees his comrades high above him flying To seek their nests among the island reeds ; Strong is their flight ; all lonely he is lying Washed by the crimsoned water as he bleeds. O Thou who carest for the falling sparrow, Canst Thou the sinless sufferer's pang forget ? Or is thy dread account-book's page so narrow It's one long column scores thy creatures' debt? WITH BIRDS AND POETS 269 Poor gentle guest, by nature kindly cherished, A world grows dark with thee in blinding death ; One little gasp — thy universe has perished, Wrecked by the idle thief who stole thy breath ! Oliver Wendell Holmes. THE KITTIWAKES Like white feathers blown about the rocks, Like soft snowflakes wavering in the air, Wheel the Kittiwakes in scattered flocks, Crying, floating, fluttering everywhere. Shapes of snow and cloud, they soar and whirl : Downy breasts that shine like lilies white \ Delicate vaporous tints of gray and pearl Laid upon their arching wings so light. Eyes of jet and beaks and feet of gold, — Lovelier creatures never sailed in air ; Innocent, inquisitive, and bold, Knowing not the dangers that they dare. Stooping now above a beckoning hand, Following gleams of waving kerchiefs white, What should they of evil understand, Though the gun awaits them full in sight? Though their blood the quiet wave makes red, Though their broken plumes float far and wide, Still they linger, hovering overhead, Still the gun deals death on every side. 270 THROUGH THE YEAR Oh, begone, sweet birds, or higher soar ! See you not your comrades low are laid ? But they only nit and call the more, — Ignorant, unconscious, undismayed. Nay then, boatmen, spare them ! Must they bear Pangs like those for human vanity? That their lovely plumage we may wear Must these fair, pathetic creatures die? Let the tawny squaws themselves admire, Decked with feathers, — we can wiser be. I beseech you, boatmen, do not fire ! Stain no more with blood the tranquil sea. Celia Thaxter. WINTER Thou singest alone on the bare wintry bough, As if Spring, with its leaves, were around thee now ; And its voice, that was heard in the laughing rill, And the breeze, as it whispered a? er meadow and hill, Still fell on thine ear, as it murmured along To join the sweet tide of thine own gushing song. Sing on, though its sweetness was lost on the blast, And the storm has not heeded thy song as it passed ; Yet its music awoke, in a heart that was near, A thought, whose remembrance will ever prove dear ; Though the brook may be frozen, though silent its voice, And the gales through the meadotvs no longer rejoice, Still I felt, as my ear caught thy glad note of glee, That my heart in life's winter might carol like thee. The Winter Bird. — Jones Very. 272 DECEMBER In the birches, on the grasses Stiffly rising through the snow crust, On the slope of yonder sand-bank Where the snow has slipped and wasted, Rest a flock of trustful strangers, lisping words of gentle greeting, Rest and find the sun's rays warming, Rest and find their food abundant, Resting, sing of weary journeys From a Northland cold and distant. The Red-Poll Linnet. — Frank Bolles. I hear no more the robin's summer song Through the gray network of the wintry woods : Only the cawing crows that all day long Clamor about the windy solitudes. December. — Christopher P. Cranch. 274 WITH BIRDS AND POETS 275 WINTER COMRADES Plume and go, ye summer folk ; Fly from Winter's killing stroke, Bluebird, sparrow, thrush, and swallow, Wild geese from the marshes follow, Wood-dove from the lonesome hollow, Rise, and follow South — all follow ! Now I greet ye, hardy tribes, Snowy owl, and night-black crow Startling with your wild halloo ; Blue-jay screaming like the wind, In the tree-tops gaunt and thinned ; You in Summer called " Bob- white " (Voice of far-off fields' delight) , Now among the barn-yard brood Fearless searching for your food ; Nuthatch, snowbird, chickadee, Downy tapper on the tree ; And you twittering goldfinch drove (Masked in gray) , that blithely rove Where the herby pastures show Tables set above the snow ; And ye other flocks that ramble Where the red hip trims the bramble, Or the rowan berry bright And the scarlet haw invite — Winter comrades, well betide ye, Friendly trunk and hollow hide ye, Hemlock branches interlace, When the Northern blast gives chase. Edith Thomas. 276 THROUGH THE YEAR THE NEST 1 PALINODE DECEMBER Like some lorn abbey now, the wood Stands roofless in the bitter air ; In ruins on its floor is strewed The carven foliage quaint and rare, And homeless winds complain along The columned choir once thrilled with song. And thou, dear nest, whence joy and praise The thankful oriole used to pour, Swing' st empty while the north winds chase Their snowy swarms from Labrador : But, loyal to the happy past, I love thee still for what thou wast. Ah, when the Summer graces flee From other nests more dear than thou, And, where June crowded once, I see Only bare trunk and disleaved bough ; When springs of life that gleamed and gushed Run chilled, and slower, and are hushed ; When our own branches, naked long, The vacant nests of Spring betray, Nurseries of passion, love, and song That vanished as our year grew gray ; When Life drones o'er a tale twice told O'er embers pleading with the cold, — 1 Part first will be found in its appropriate month (May). * 1/1 7 V I Barred Owl WITH BIRDS AND POETS 277 I'll trust that, like the birds of Spring, Our good goes not without repair, But only flies to soar and sing Far off in some diviner air, Where we shall find it in the calms Of that fair garden 'neath the palms. James Russell Lowell. TO THE OWL Grave, pensive, musing, solitary bird, Who lov'st to woo the lone and silent night, By thee to all the joys of day preferr'd, And maugre coxcomb birds who love the light ; Witlings have said — but ignorance will prate — Thou lovest darkness, and the light dost shun Because thy deeds are evil, and dost hate The all-pervading influence of the sun : Let such thy solemn gait and look despise, Their mirth is folly and their laughter mad ; For Pallas, Goddess chaste, discreet, and wise, Gave thee that sober air and visage sad : 'Tis true, thy hooting does not please the ear, But thou, perhaps, art moralizing now ; And man delights not moral truth to hear, Or from the pulpit or dismantled bough : 278 THROUGH THE YEAR From that age -blighted bough thou seemest to cry " O turn at my reproof, ye sons of men ; Why scorn ye Virtue, creatures born to die ? And when will ye be truly wise, ah ! when? " 'Tis better to the house of grief to go, Than pleasure's court, on luxuries to feast ; Far better to be mov'd at human woe, Than gorge your sensual cravings like a beast." Bird of Minerva / denizen of night ! Oft, when the shades of eve begin to fall, Will I retire from Pleasure's meteor light, To see thee perch'd on yonder ruin'd wall; There, where the ivy and the night-shade climb, Amid the waste a thousand years have made, We'll gather wisdom from the wreck of time, — Or, wrapp'd in Contemplation's awful shade, Where some old temple lifts its form sublime, 'Midst Death's drear spoils and many a mould'ring tomb, We there will pass beyond the bourn of time, And meditate on man's eternal doom : And when I tread the consecrated aisle, And hear thee pour thy melancholy scream, I'll ponder on my destiny the while ; The world of spirits shall be all my theme ! Samuel Low. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 279 OWL AGAINST ROBIN Frowning, the owl in the oak complained him Sore, that the song of the robin restrained him Wrongly of slumber, rudely of rest. " From the north, from the east, from the south and the west, Woodland, wheat-field, corn-field, clover, Over and over and over and over, Five o'clock, ten o'clock, twelve, or seven, Nothing but robin-songs heard under heaven : How can we sleep ? " Peep / you whistle, and cheep / cheep ! cheep ! Oh, peep if you will, and buy, if 'tis cheap, And have done ; for an owl must sleep. Are ye singing for fame, and who shall be first ? Each day's the same, yet the last is worst, And the summer is cursed with the silly outburst Of idiot red-breasts peeping and cheeping By day, when all honest birds ought to be sleeping. Lord, what a din ! And so out of reason. Have ye not heard that each thing hath its season? Night is to work in, night is for play-time ! Good heavens, not day-time ! " A vulgar flaunt is the flaring day, The impudent, hot, unsparing day, That leaves not a stain nor a secret untold, — Day the reporter, — the gossip of old, — Deformity's tease, — man's common scold — 280 THROUGH THE YEAR Poh ! Shut the eyes, let the sense go numb When day down the eastern way has come. 'Tis clear as the moon (by the argument drawn From Design) that the world should retire at dawn. Day kills. The leaf and the laborer breathe Death in the sun, the cities seethe, The mortal black marshes bubble with heat And puff up pestilence : nothing is sweet Has to do with the sun : even virtue will taint (Philosophers say) and manhood grow faint In the lands where the villanous sun has sway Through the livelong drag of the dreadful day. What Eden but noon-light stares it tame, Shadowless, brazen, forsaken of shame ? For the sun tells lies on the landscape, — now Reports me the what, unrelieved with the how, — As messengers lie, with the facts alone, Delivering the word and withholding the tone. " But oh, the sweetness, and oh, the light Of the high- fastidious night ! Oh, to awake with the wise old stars — The cultured, the careful, the Chesterfield stars — That wink at the work-a-day fact of crime And shine so rich through the ruins of time That Baalbec is finer than London : oh, To sit on the bough that zigzags low By the woodland pool, And loudly laugh at man, the fool WITH BIRDS AND POETS 28 1 That vows to the vulgar sun ; oh, rare, To wheel from the wood to the window where A day-worn sleeper is dreaming of care, And perch on the sill and straightly stare Through his visions j rare, to sail Aslant with the hill and a-curve with the vale, — To flit down the shadow-shot- with-gleam, Between hanging leaves and starlit stream, Hither, thither, to and fro, Silent, aimless, dayless, slow, (Aim/ess ? Field-mice ? True they're slain, But the night-philosophy hoots at pain, Grips, eats quick, and drops the bones In the water beneath the bough, nor moans At the death life feeds on.) Robin, pray Come away, come away To the cultus of night. Abandon the day. Have more to think and have less to say. And cannot you walk now ? Bah! don't hop ! Stop ! Look at the owl, scarce seen, scarce heard, O irritant, iterant, maddening bird ! " Owl against Robin. — Sidney Lanier. From "Poems of Sidney Lanier." Copyright, 1SS4, 1S91, by Mary D. Lanier, and published by Charles Scribner's Sons. 282 THROUGH THE YEAR THE EARLY OWL An owl once lived in a hollow tree, And he was as wise as wise could be. The branch of learning he didn't know Could scarce on the tree of knowledge grow, He knew the tree from branch to root, And an owl like that can afford to hoot. And he hooted — until, alas ! one day, He chanced to hear, in a casual way, An insignificant little bird Make use of a term he had never heard. He was flying to bed in the dawning light When he heard her singing with all her might, " Hurray ! hurray ! for the early worm ! " " Dear me," said the owl, " what a singular term ! I would look it up if it weren't so late, I must rise at dusk to investigate. Early to bed and early to rise Makes an owl healthy, and stealthy, and wise ! " So he slept like an honest owl all day, And rose in the early twilight gray, And went to work in the dusky light To look for the early worm at night. He searched the country for miles around, But the early worm was not to be found ; WITH BIRDS AND POETS 283 So he went to bed in the dawning light And looked for the " worm " again next night. And again and again, and again and again, He sought and he sought, but all in vain, Till he must have looked for a year and a day For the early worm in the twilight gray. At last in despair he gave up the search, And was heard to remark as he sat on his perch By the side of his nest in the hollow tree : " The thing is as plain as night to me — Nothing can shake my conviction firm. There's no such thing as the early worm." Oliver Herford. WHAT SEES THE OWL His velvet wing sweeps through the night : With magic of his wondrous sight He oversees his vast domain, And king supreme of night doth reign. Around him lies a silent world, The day with all its noise is furled ; When every shadow seems a moon, And every light a sun at noon. How welcome from the blinding glare Is the cool grayness of the air ! How sweet the power to reign, a king, When day his banishment will bring ! 284 THROUGH THE YEAR For him the colorless moonlight Burns brilliant, an aurora bright ; The forest's deepest gloom stands clear From mystery and helpless fear. He sees the silver cobwebs spun, The dewdrops set the flowers have won, The firefly's gleam offends his sight, It seems a spark of fierce sunlight. Clear winter nights when he so bold, " For all his feathers, is a-cold," Sees the Frost-spirit fling his lace, And fashion icicles apace. At his weird call afar and faint A sleepy echo, like the quaint Last notes of some wild chant, replies And mocks his solitude — and dies. What Sees the Owl. — Elizabeth Sears Bates. Overland Monthly Pub. Co. THE OWL And then with awe They walked 'round Noey's big pet owl, and saw Him film his great, clear, liquid eyes and stare And turn and turn his head 'round there The same way they kept circling — as though he Could turn it one way thus eternally. A Child World. — James Whitcomb Riley. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 285 THE OWL The owl, belated in his plundering, Shall here await the friendly night, Blinking whene'er he wakes, and wondering What fool it was invented light. On Planting a Tree at Inveraray. — James Russell Lowell. A horned owl on silent wings, From out a cavernous place; Speeds, like a bolt of darkness hurled Athwart the shining space Above the vale from wood to wood, And leaves no trace behind, — Like some dark fancy flung across A pure and peaceful mind ! At Night. — Maurice Thompson. THE LOG-COCK Only in primeval forests, Only where the mighty hemlocks Skyward lift their storm-bent branches, Will you find the log-cock toiling, Will you hear his shriek appalling, Will you see his flame crest gleaming. In the early winter mornings, Ere the crossbills leave the pine woods, Ere the grosbeaks seek the ash seeds, 286 THROUGH THE YEAR Ere the red-polls find the birch buds, Ere the titmouse calls his Phoebe ; While the red fox still is prowling, While the partridge still is budding, Just before the sun comes stealing Upwards from the Bearcamp meadows, You may hear the log-cock working In the glens below Chocorua, In the forests north of Paugus, On the slopes of Passaconway. Hammer blows on hollow tree-trunks, Blows which echo from the mountains, Strikes he with his nervous chisel. Chips are flying all around him, Chips are piling high below him, Still his blows fall fast and earnest, Still the cliffs and woods repeat them. If with fox feet you approach him, If with scant breath you discern him, In this early winter morning As he toils with noisy rappings, You will see his claws embedded In the hemlock's outer fibre, You will see his glossy plumage Dark against the snowy hillside, You will see his head thrown backward, Then with spiteful force flung forward, You will see the fresh chips flying, You will hear the tree complaining. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 287 If you crush the crust beneath you, If his glance chance to be towards you, You will see the flame crest lifted, You will see his eye flash anger, You will hear a shriek so vengeful, In your dreams will come its echo. Then the log-cock will have vanished, And the ants within the hemlock Will escape his morning drilling. Chocorua's Tenants. — Frank Bolles. THE WINTER ROBIN Now is that sad time of year, When no flower or leaf is here ; When in misty southern ways Oriole and jay have flown, And of all sweet birds, alone The Robin stays. So give thanks at Christmas-tide ; Hopes of springtime yet abide ! See, in spite of darksome days, Wind and rain and bitter chill Snow, and sleet-hung branches, still The Robin stays ! Thomas Bailey Aldrich. JANUARY When the leaves are shed, And the branches bare, When the snows are deep, And the flowers asleep, And the Autumn dead ; And the skies are o'er us bent, Gray and gloomy since she went, And the sifting snow is drifting Through the air ; Then 'mid snowdrifts white, Though the trees are bare, Comes the snowbird, bold In the Winter's cold, Quick and round and bright, Light he steps across the snow, Cares he not for winds that blow, Though the sifting snow be drifting Through the air. The Snowbird. —Dora Read Goodale. Better far, ah, yes ! than no bird Is the ever-present snowbird; Gayly tripping, dainty creature, Where the snow hides every feature ; Covers fences, field, and tree, Clothes in white all things but thee : Restless, twittering, trusty snowbird, Lighter heart than thine has no bird. Snowbird. — Charles C. Abbott. 290 WITH BIRDS AND POETS 29 1 SNOWBIRDS Along the narrow sandy height I watch them swiftly come and go, Or round the leafless wood, Like flurries of wind-driven snow, Revolving in perpetual flight, A changing multitude. Nearer and nearer still they sway, And, scattering in a circled sweep, Rush down without a sound ; And now I see them peer and peep, Across yon level bleak and gray, Searching the frozen ground, — Until a little wind upheaves, And makes a sudden rustling there, And then they drop their play, Flash up into the sunless air, And like a flight of silver leaves Swirl round and sweep away. Archibald Lampman. 292 THROUGH THE YEAR MY APPLE-TREE In Winter time the woodpecker, Makes in those boughs his tiny stir, The little tap of busy bill The signal of his work and skill ; With sober coat and spark of red Cresting his smooth, obsequious head, He seems in eager haste to be Inspecting that old apple-tree. There the neat snowbird in the sun Sits when his frugal meal is done ; For him those pale and scanty rays Have the kind charm of Summer days. His slaty coat and snowy breast, Like some old Friend for meeting dressed. His aspect trim, and short black i beak ; His shining eye, severely meek ; His bold, familiar, close advance, With sidewise head and sidelong glance, Delight mine eye when cold winds blow. I love him, but he brings the snow. Here when the Spring begins to call, The sparrow sings his madrigal ; Through sleet and hail, in shine or rain, I hear him o'er and o'er again : " Resilio ! silio ! silio ! sil ! " He warbles with such cheery will, 1 The bill of snowbird, or junco, is flesh-color. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 293 I bless the sweet, persistent song, And wish my courage were as strong. On him the bluebird follows fast. His whistle too defies the blast," His bosom red and mantle blue With the first South Wind's breath are due. He brings the blossoms hope and cheer As deep in dust his song they hear. Then the fat robin bends the boughs, Prospecting for his summer house ; So red and round, he seems to be Himself an apple on the tree. With plaintive song he prophesies Long days of rain, though bright the skies ; And when the sun returns once more He sings yet louder than before, Struts on the fence, chirps sharp and loud, By no insulting rival cowed, With dauntless heart and ready wing, To flout a rival or to sing. Then tiny warblers flit and sing, With golden spots on crest and wing, Or, decked with scarlet epaulette, Above each dusky winglet set, They hunt the blossoms for their prey And pipe their fairy roundelay. The crimson finch, with whirr and trill Painted like sunsets, red and chill, Perched in a knot of blossoms pale, Nods his quick head and flirts his tail, 294 THROUGH THE YEAR And calls his sober-suited spouse To dinner in the fragrant boughs. Before him tribes shall disappear That threat the promise of the year; And then awhile he gives them rest, To build his warm and secret nest. The goldfinch, social, chirping, bright, Takes in those branches his delight. A troop like flying sunbeams pass And light among the vivid grass, Or on the end of some long branch, Light acrobats, in air they launch, And in the wild -wind sway and swing, Intent to twitter, glance, and sing ; Till overhead the oriole Pours out the passion of his soul, A winged flame that darts and burns Dazzling where'er his bright wing turns, Yet fierce to scold, to rout, to flight, Battle with peers his chief delight, And many a song of victory Awakes and thrills the apple tree ! But summer brings these branches peace, The song and strife of Spring-time cease ; Their homes are built, each feathered breast Is busied with its little nest. Careless of praise, secure of food, They keep the Father's promise good, And preach their tender homily Of hope and love and trust, to me. Rose Terry Cooke. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 295 THE TITMOUSE When piped a tiny voice hard by, Gay and polite, a cheerful cry, Chic-chicadeedee I saucy note Out of sound heart and merry throat, As if it said, " Good-day, good sir ! Fine afternoon, old passenger ! Happy to meet you in these places, Where January brings few faces." This poet, though he live apart, Moved by his hospitable heart, Sped, when I passed his sylvan fort, To do the honors of his court, As fits a feathered lord of land, Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hand, Hopped on the bough, then darting low, Prints his small impress on the snow, Shows feats of his gymnastic play, Head downward, clinging to the spray. Here was this atom in full breath, Hurling defiance at vast death ; This scrap of valor just for play Fronts the north wind in waistcoat gray, As if to shame my weak behavior ; I greeted loud my little savior, " You pet ! what dost here ? and what for ? In these woods, my small Labrador, At this pinch, wee San Salvador ! 296 THROUGH THE YEAR What fire burns in that little chest So frolic, stout, and self-possest ? Henceforth I wear no stripe but thine ; Ashes and jet all hues outshine. Why are not diamonds black and gray, To ape thy dare-devil array? And I affirm, the spacious North Exists to draw thy virtue forth. I think no virtue goes with size ; The reason of all cowardice Is, that men are overgrown, And to be valiant, must come down To the titmouse dimension ! " 'Tis good-will makes intelligence, And I began to catch the sense Of my bird's song : " Live out of doors In the great woods, on prairie floors. I dine in the sun ; when he sinks in the sea, I too have a hole in a hollow tree ; And I like less when summer beats With stifling beams on these retreats, Than noontide twilights which snow makes With tempest of the blinding flakes. For well the soul, if stout within, Can arm impregnably the skin ; And polar frost my frame defied, Made of the air that blows outside." WITH BIRDS AND POETS 297 With glad remembrance of my debt, I homeward turn ; farewell, my pet ! When here again thy pilgrim comes, He shall bring store of seeds and crumbs. Doubt not, so long as earth has bread, Thou first and foremost shall be fed : The Providence that is most large Takes hearts like thine in special charge, Helps who for their own need are strong, And the sky doats on cheerful song. Henceforth I prize thy wiry chant O'er all that mass and minster vaunt ; For men mis-hear thy call in spring, As 'twould accost some frivolous wing, Crying out of the hazel-copse, Phce-be ! And, in winter, Chic-a-dee-dee ! I think old Caesar must have heard In northern Gaul my dauntless bird, And, echoed in some frosty wold, Borrowed thy battle-numbers bold, And I will write our annals new, And thank thee for a better clew, I, who dreamed not when I came here To find the antidote of fear, Now hear thee say in Roman key, Pcean ! Veni, vidi, vici. Ralph Waldo Emerson. 298 THROUGH THE YEAR THE CHICKADEE Thou little blackcap, chirping at my door, And then saluting with thy gentle song Or lonely whistle my attentive ear A hearty welcome would I give to thee, Thou teacher blest of quietness and peace ; Sweet minister of love, for hearts awake To the rare minstrelsy of field and wood. Thou constant friend ! I hail thee with delight, Who at this season of rude winter's reign, When all the cheerful summer birds are fled, Dost still remain to cheer the heart of man ! And though in numbers few thy song is given, Two tranquil notes alone thy fullest song, Yet scarcely when the joyous year brings back The swelling choir of various notes once more, Have I found deeper or more welcome strains. For when all nature glows with life again, When hills and dales put on their vernal gear, When gentle wild flowers burst upon our gaze, With all the exultation of the year, Our souls unequal to the heavenly boon Are often overwhelmed, and in the attempt To enjoy it all droop listless and confused : But in the dearth of these sweet sights and sounds This grand display of God's enriching power, The trees all bare and nature's russet stole Thrown o'er the landscape, dull must be the heart, Ingrate to Him who rules the perfect year, That is not gladdened by thy gentle song. Anon. "W/ITT.H. Chickadee WITH BIRDS AND POETS 299 THE BLACK-CAPPED CHICKADEE " Chic-chickadee dee ! " I saucily say ; My heart it is sound, my throat it is gay ! Every one that I meet I merrily greet With a chickadee dee, chickadee dee ! To cheer and to cherish, on roadside and street, My cap was made jaunty, my note was made sweet. Chickadeedee, chickadeedee ! No bird of the winter so merry and free ; Yet sad is my heart, though my song one of glee, For my mate ne'er shall hear my chickadeedee. I " chickadeedee " in forest and glade, " Day, day, day ! " to the sweet country maid ; From autumn to spring-time I utter my song Of chickadeedee all the day long ! The silence of winter my note breaks in twain, And I " chickadeedee" in sunshine and rain. Chickadeedee, chickadeedee ! No bird of the winter so merry and free ; Yet sad is my heart, though my song one of glee, For my mate ne'er shall hear my chickadeedee. Charles C. Marble. • I tarried a bit As a crested tit Whistled his call so cheery, It seemed a tune In leafy June Sung by a nesting veery. Crested Tit. — Charles C Abbott. FEBRUARY No more the robin pipes his lay To greet the flushed advance of morn ; He sings in valleys far away ; His heart is with the South to-day : He catinot shrill among the corn. For all the hay and com are down And gar?iered ; and the withered leaf, Against the branches bare and brown, Rattles ; and all the days are brief Winter Days. — Henry Abbey. 302 WITH BIRDS AND POETS 303 IN CAPTIVITY You ask me why I long to fly Out from your palace to the dreamy woods And the summer solitudes, Why I pine In this cage of mine, Why I fret, Why I set All manner of querulous echoes fluttering forth From the cold North And wandering Southward with beseeching pain In every strain. Ask me not, Task me not With such vain questions, but fling wide the door, And hinder me no more ; Give back my wings to me, And the wild currents of my liberty ! I pant, I faint; I die For the trees so high And the broad fields of luscious cane And the grassy plain And the red-tiled villages so old and dull, Where (through the unkempt gardens rung) The timbre of the Creole tongue Makes every close so beautiful. 304 THROUGH THE YEAR Oh, if you please, Give me release ! Open the gate Of this cage of Fate And let me mount the south wind and go down To Bay Saint Louis town, Where the brown bees hum In amber mists of pollen and perfume ; And the roses gush abloom ! There in the oleander groves, With drooping wings my dear mate moves And wonders why I stay So long, so long away, While the spring in fervid prime Has waxed to nesting time, And the air once more, in pungent ecstasy, Whirls the wasp and butterfly, Flings the orange petals high, And wrings a racy thrill from every tree ! I long to be once more On the warm Gulf shore, In the dark magnolia foliage hidden quite, With the foam-capped waves in sight, And the vessels, wing by wing, Gleaming and wavering On the far horizon line, And the sun, right overhead, Flaring red, And flooding with flame divine The deep blue hollow of the sky, And gilding the vagrant gulf-caps gloriously. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 305 Oh, the shimmer and the sheen On the bay and the myrtle green ! Oh, the keen bouquet From the wax-berry fruit ! Oh, wafts that stray O'er vines all wine from top to root ! Oh, the dull red gold in the lemon tree ! Oh, open the cage and let me go ! Free me or I die, Give me sweet liberty, Whose every pulse was mine so long ago, Down by the sea. I feel, — I feel so faint, my heart beats low, My throat is dry and harsh — Oh, give me back my thicket by the marsh ! Let me see the herons wade In the watery glade, And let me see the water-fowl go by Glimmering against the sky. Fainter, fainter — so, My life-stream sinks — runs low. Oh! Oh! Open the cage and let me go, Floating, dreaming, revelling, dying, down To my mate, my queen, my love In the fragrant, drowsy grove Beyond the flowery closes of Bay Saint Louis town. Maurice Thompson. 306 THROUGH THE YEAR THE CAGED BIRD I know what the caged bird feels, alas ! When the sun is bright on the upland slopes ; When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass, And the river flows like a stream of glass ; When the first bird sings and the first bud opes, And the faint perfume from its chalice steals, — I know what the caged bird feels ! I know why the caged bird beats his wing Till its blood is red on the cruel bars : For he must fly back to his perch and cling When he fain would be on the bough a-swing ; And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars, And they pulse again with a keener sting, — I know why he beats his wing ! I know why the caged bird sings, ah me ! When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore — When he beats his bars and he would be free ; It is not a carol of joy or glee, But a prayer he sends from his heart's deep core, But a plea, that upward to heaven he flings, — I know why the caged bird sings ! Sympathy. — Paul Laurence Dunbar. CAPTIVE The Summer comes, the Summer dies, Red leaves whirl idly from the tree, But no more cleaving of the skies, No southward sunshine waits for me ! WITH BIRDS AND POETS 307 You shut, me in a gilded cage, You deck the bars with tropic flowers, Nor know that freedom's living rage Defies you through the listless hours. What passion fierce, what service true, Could ever such a wrong requite ? What gift, or clasp, or kiss from you Were worth an hour of soaring flight ? I beat my wings against the wire, I pant my trammelled heart away ; The fever of one mad desire Burns and consumes me all the day. What care I for your tedious love, For tender word or fond caress ? I die for one free flight above, One rapture of the wilderness ! Rose Terry Cooke. TO A CAPTIVE OWL I should be dumb before thee, feathered sage ! And gaze upon thy phiz with solemn awe, But for a most audacious wish to gauge The hoarded wisdom of thy learned craw. Art thou, grave bird ! so wondrous wise indeed? Speak freely, without fear of jest or gibe — What is thy moral and religious creed? And what the metaphysics of thy tribe ? 308 THROUGH THE YEAR A poet, curious in birds and brutes, I do not question thee in idle play ; What is thy station ? What are thy pursuits ? Doubtless thou hast thy pleasures — what are they ? Or is't thy wont to muse and mouse at once, Entice thy prey with airs of meditation, And with the unvarying habits of a dunce, To dine in solemn depths of contemplation ? There may be much — the world at least says so — Behind that ponderous brow and thoughtful gaze ; Yet such a great philosopher should know, It is by no means wise to think always. And, Bird, despite thy meditative air, I hold thy stock of wit but paltry pelf — Thou show'st that same grave aspect everywhere, And wouldst look thoughtful stuffed, upon a shelf. I grieve to be so plain, renowned Bird — Thy name's a flam, and thou an empty fowl ; And what is more, upon a Poet's word I'd say as much, wert thou Minerva's owl. * So doff th' imposture of those heavy brows ; They do not serve to hide thy instincts base — And if thou must be sometimes munching mouse, Munch it, O Owl ! with less profound a face. Henry Timrod. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 309 THE TAMED EAGLE He sat upon his humble perch, nor flew As I came nigh ; But when I nearer drew Looked, as I fancied, with reproachful eye And sadly too. And something spoke his native pride untamed Despite his woe ; Which, when I marked — ashamed To see a noble creature brought so low — My heart exclaimed, — Where is the fire that lit thy fearless eye, Child of the storm, When from thy home on high, Yon craggy -breasted rock, I saw thy form Cleaving the sky ? I grieve to see thy dauntless spirit tamed, Gone out the light That in thine eye-ball flamed, When to the mid-day sun thy steady flight Was proudly aimed ! Like a young dove forsaken is the look Of thy sad eye, Who in some lonely nook Mourns on the willow bough her destiny Beside the brook. 3IO THROUGH THE YEAR O, let me not insult thy fallen dignity, Thou monarch bird, Gazing with vulgar eye Upon thy ruin ; for my heart is stirred To hear thy cry ! Yet something sterner in thy downward gaze Doth seem to lower, And deep disdain betrays, As if thou cursed man's poorly acted power And scorned his praise. Anna Maria Wells. THE SNOW-FILLED NEST It swings upon the leafless tree, By stormy winds blown to and fro ; Deserted, lonely, sad to see, And full of cruel snow. In Summer's noon the leaves above Made dewy shelter from the heat • The nest was full of life and love ; Ah, life and love are sweet ! The tender brooding of the day, The silent, peaceful dreams of night, The joys that patience overpay, The cry of young delight, The song that through the branches rings, The nestling crowd with eager eyes, WITH BIRDS AND POETS 31 1 The flutter soft of untried wings, The flight of glad surprise, — All, all are gone ! I know not where ; And still upon the cold, gray tree, Lonely, and tossed by every air, That snow-filled nest I see. Rose Terry Cooke. A DEAD BIRD IN WINTER The cold, hard sky and hidden sun, The stiffened trees that shiver so, With bare twigs naked every one To these harsh winds that freeze the snow, It was a bitter place to die, Poor birdie ! Was it easier then, On such a world to shut thine eye, And sleep away from life, than when The apple-blossoms tint the air, And, twittering in the sunny trees, Thy fellow-songsters flit and pair, Breasting the warm, caressing breeze? Nay, it were easier, I feel, Though 'twere a brighter Earth to lose, To let the summer shadows steal About thee, bringing their repose ; 312 THROUGH THE YEAR When the noon hush was on the air And on the flowers the warm sun shined, And Earth seemed all so sweet and fair, That He who made it must be kind. So I, too, could not bear to go From Life in this unfriendly clime, To lie beneath the crusted snow, When the dead grass stands stiff with rime ! But under those blue skies of home, Far easier were it to lie down Where the perpetual violets bloom, And the rich moss grows never brown ; Where linnets never cease to build Their nests, in boughs that always wave To odorous airs, with blessings filled From nestled blossoms round my grave. Edward Rowland Sill. TO A NUTHATCH Shrewd little haunter of woods all gray, Whom I meet on my walk of a winter day, You're busy inspecting each cranny and hole In the ragged bark of yon hickory bole ; You intent on your task, and I on the law Of your wonderful head and gymnastic claw ! White-breasted Nuthatch WITH BIRDS AND POETS 313 The woodpecker well may despair of this feat — Only the fly with you can compete ! So much is clear ; but I fain would know How you can so reckless and fearless go, Head upward, head downward, all one to you, Zenith and nadir the same to your view ? Edith" Thomas. The white of the snow is enchanting ; Tell not of the ice-tree in words ; There is joy in the bells of the snow-crunching sleigh, In the ruddy cheek and the laughter gay, But, I long for the song of the birds. The nimble titmouse is cheery, The woodpecker's screech I have heard, The little gray sparrows from over the sea Chirp out a wee morsel of solace to me, But not as the song of a bird. Is Summer real and coming, With its waving green and its herds ? For the greatest good the Winter can bring Is the hope in me of returning Spring, And the joyous song of the birds. Winter. — William G. Barton. INDEX Apple-tree, poem on, 292. Beach bird (either sandpiper or plover), poem on, 219. Blackbird, Ref., 25, 52, 54 (prob. yellow-headed), 58, 115, 128, 172 (the English blackbird, a thrush). Blackbird, Redwing, 97. Bluebird, poems on, 7, 8, 9, 11, 13, 14, 257, 258. Ref., 2, 4, 48, 51, 58, 99, 106, 121, 137, 160, 183, r85, 221, 226, 239, 244, 254, 275, 293. Blue jay, see Jay. "Bob White," see Quail. Bobolink, poems on, 145, 148, 150, 152, 153, 155, 158, 159, 160. Ref., 137, 144, 165, 194, 253. Brant, see Geese. Broad-bill (scaup duck), Ref., 265. Brown Thrasher, see Thrush. Bunting (here prob. junco), Ref., 93. Canary, Ref., 137. Canvas-back duck, poems on, 264, 265. See Duck. Ref., 267. Cardinal, Virginia, or red-bird, poem on, 93. Ref,, 68, 142, 215. Catbird, poems on, 161, 163, 164, 165, 166. Ref., 60, 69, 142, 144, 159, 171. Chat, Yellow-breasted, poem on, 175. 3*5 316 INDEX Chickadee, Black-capped, poems on, 295, 298, 299. Ref., 28, 239, 244, 275, 286, 299, 313. Coot, or scoter (a kind of duck ; not the same as the mud hen, also called coot), poem on shooting of, 250. Ref., 98, 252. Crane, poem on, 130. Ref., 142. Creeper, Brown, Ref., 28, 239. Cross-bill, Ref., 239, 285. Crow, poem on, 45. Ref., 45, 51, 99, 183, 187, 213, 216, 226, 228, 229, 239, 243, 245, 256, 274, 275. Crow, Rain, or cuckoo, poem on, 222. Cuckoo, poem on, 222. Ref., 213. Dewberries (low blackberries), Ref., 92. Dotterel, see Plover. Dove, Mourning, poems on, 191, 192. Ref., 59, 67, 86, 142, 229, 275, 309. Draba (whitlow grass, species of crucifer), Ref., 42. Duck, Ref., 60, 82, 98, 238, 266. " Broad-bill (scaup duck), Ref., 265. " Buffle-head, Ref., 265. " Canvas-back, poems on, 264-265. Ref., 267. Duck, Coot (scoter, not mud hen), Ref., 98, 252. " " shooting of, poem on, 250. Duck, Dusky (black duck), poem on, 235. " Old wives (old squaw or long-tailed duck), Ref., 44, 251. " Ruddy, Ref., 265. " Shelldrake, Ref., 251. " Whistler, Ref., 252. INDEX 3 1 7 Duck, Widgeon, Ref., 264. 11 Wood-duck, poem on, 117. Eagle, poems on, 248, 309. Ref., 96, 102, 209, 213, 214, 215, 221. Falcon, Ref., 209. Field-fares, Ref., 186. {See note, index, page 323.) Finch, Ref., 97, 127, 252. " Goldfinch, Ref., 106, 200, 275, 294. " Purple, Ref., 4, 226, 293. Fish-hawk, poem on, 43. Ref., 44, 136 (Osprey). Flicker (yellow-hammer), Ref., 28, 131. Flycatcher, Great crested, poem on, 123. " ' King bird, see King bird. " Least (chebec), Ref., 159. " Pewee, see Pewee. " Phoebe, see Phcebe. Geese, Canada, poems on, 49, 50, 260, 261. Ref., 44, 98, 130, 250, 256, 265, 275. Geese, Brant, Ref., 130, 250, 267. " " snowy (snow goose?), Ref., 130. Golden-crowned thrush, see Oven-bird. Golden robin, see Oriole. Goldfinch, see Finch. Grass bird, see Sparrow. Grosbeak, Cardinal, see Virginia cardinal, or red-bird. " Pine, Ref., 239, 285. Gulls, poems on, 246, 247. Ref., 44, 266. Gulls, Kittiwakes, poem on, 269. 3 1 8 INDEX Hang-bird, see Oriole. Hawk, poem on, 195. Ref., 67, 83, 99, 142, 213, 214, 239, 243, 253. Hawk, Hen-hawk, Ref., 226. (Large hawks are all commonly so called.) Hermit thrush, see Thrush. Heron, Great blue, poem on, 131. Ref., 128, 228, 305. Humming-bird, poems on, 202, 204, 205, 206, 207, 209, 210, 211. " " Ruby throated, poems on, 203, 208. Jay (blue jay), poems on, 239, 242, 243. Ref., 52, 60, 68, 127, 161, 185, 190, 213, 228, 229, 238, 256, 275, 287. Junco (blue-back snowbird), Ref., 239, 244, 292. Kalmina (laurel), Ref., 25, 127. Killdeer, see -Plover. King bird, poems on, 211, 215. Kingfisher, poems on, 132, 133, 135. Ref., 52, 142, 161. Kinglet, Ref., 239, 253. Kittiwakes, poem on, 269, see Gulls. Lapland Longspur, poem on, 193. Lark, Meadow-lark, poems on, 78, 79, 80, 82. {See note, index, page 323.) Ref., 25, 52, 58, 152, 185, 186. Lark, Shore-lark (horned lark), Ref., 51. " Skylark, Ref., 142, 163 (English skylark). Laverock (English lark), Ref., 172. Linnet, Ref., 128, 152, 185, 190, 312. Redpoll, Ref., 239, 274, 286. Logcock (pileated woodpecker), poem on, 285. INDEX 319 Loon, poem on, 220. Ref., 251. Lory, Ref., 209. Lyrebird, Ref., 209. Maryland yellow-throat, poem on, 125. Mast (nuts or fruit from forest trees), Ref., 103. Meadow-lark, see Lark. Mocking-bird, poems on, 58, 60, 62, 64, 65, 67, 68, 71, 72. Ref., 54, 86. Night-hawk, poem on, 116. Ref., 52. Nightingale (an English bird), Ref., 68, 69, 71, 153, 163, 172. Nonpariel (painted bunting, Passerina ciris}, Ref., 65. Nuthatch, poems on, 312. Ref., 28, 51, 244, 275. Old wives, see Duck. Oriole, Baltimore, poems on, 107, 109, no, in, 112, 113, 114. Ref., 15, 52, 99, 104, 105, 131, 137, 144, 159, 165, 185, 226, 229, 276, 287, 294. Osier (willow), Ref., 97. Osprey, see Fish-hawk. Oven-bird (golden-crowned thrush), poem on, 118. Ref., 4. Owl, poems on, 277, 279, 282, 283, 284, 285, 307. Ref., 60, 100, 119, 142, 243. " Snowy, Ref., 275. Parrot (Carolina paroquet) , Ref. , 115. 320 INDEX Partridge, see Ruffed grouse. " berries, Mitchella repens, Ref., 103. Peacock, Ref., 209. Pewee, Phoebe, or bridge bird, see Phoebe. " Wood pewee, poem on, 119. Pheasant (not ruffed grouse), Ref., 209. Phoebe, poems on, 37, 39, 40, 41. " Ref. to as spring note of the chickadee, 286, 297. Pigeon (domestic), poems on, 230, 232. (wild), Ref., 99. Plover, Ref., 60, 98, 219, 222. " Belted piping (a western sub-species of the piping plover), poem on, 178. " Dotterel (a European plover here included through error), Ref., 60. " Killdee (same as Killdeer), Ref., 115. Killdeer, Ref., 60. Quail ("Bob White"), poems on, 137, 138. Ref., 52, 98, 229, 275. Rain crow, see Cuckoo. Raven, Ref., 60, 183, 245. Red-bird, see Cardinal. Red-head, see Duck. Redpoll, see Linnet. Redstart, Ref., 121, " decked with scarlet epaulette," 293. Redwing blackbird, see Blackbird. Robin, poems on, 24, 25, 27, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 287. Ref., 13, 15, 29, 37, 51, 53, 86, 97, 109, 121, 127, 137, 159, 161, 164, 166, 182, 183, 190, 197, 226, 230, 244, 254, 256, 274, 279, 281, 293, 302. Ruddy duck, see Duck. Ruffed grouse (partridge), poems on, 99, 101, 249. Ref, 98, 229, 286. INDEX 321 Sandpiper, poems on, 216, 217, 218, 219. Sea-bird, poems on, 82 (evidently duck), 84, 85. Sea fowl, Ref., 259, 266. Shelldrake, see Duck. Shore-lark, see Lark. Shrike, Loggerhead, Ref., 69. Snipe, Ref., 52, 98. Snow-bird (junco), Ref., 256, 275, 292. ** Snow- bunting, poems on, 290, 291. Sparrow, Ref., 4, 5, 28, 48, 51, 58, 60, 97, 105, 159, 183, 238, 252, 268, 275, 292. " English, Ref., 313. " Field, poem on, 190. " Golden-crowned, of Alaska, poem on, 201. " Song, poems on, 14, 17", 19, 20, 21, 23. Ref., 106, 160. Sparrow, Vesper, poem on, 175. Ref. ("grass bird"), 222. Sparrow, White-crowned, Ref., 239. Swallow, poem on, 54. Ref., 51, 53, 96, 99, 128, 239, 252, 253, 254, 275. Swallow, Bank, or sand martin, Ref., 52, 134. " Cliff, Ref., 229. (See note, index, page 323.) Thrasher, Brown (brown thrush), poem on, 174. Ref., 69, 144. Thrush, poem on, 173. Ref., 15, 25, 58, 127, 128, 137, 159, 166, 185, 213, 239, 244, 253, 275. Thrush, Brown, see Thrasher. " Golden-crowned, see Oven-bird. " Hermit, poems on, 167, 168. Ref., 118, 169. 322 INDEX Thrush, Hermit, lesser (a Pacific Coast sub-species), Ref., 202. Thrush, Wilson's, or Veery, poems on, 170, 172. Ref., 299. Thrush, Wood, poems on, 169, 170. Ref., 106, 121. Tip-up, see Sandpiper. Titmouse, see Chickadee. Veery (Wilson's thrush), see Thrush. Vireo, poem on, 178. Ref., 159, 244. Vireo, Red-eyed, poem on, 179. Ref., 118. Vulture, poem on, 234. Ref., 229. Yellow-hammer, see Flicker. Yew (ground hemlock, Taxus baccata canadensis} , Ref., 100. Warblers, Ref., 96, 118, 213, 239, 252, 253, 254, 293. " Golden-crowned thrush, see Thrush. " Maryland yellow throat, poem on, 125. " Redstart, see Redstart. " Summer, Ref., 175. Water-fowl, poem on, 87 (evidently duck). Ref., 305. Whippoorwill, poems on, 196, 197. Ref., 53, 128. Whistlers, Ref., 252. See Duck. Widgeon, Ref., 264. See Duck. Wind flower (wood anemone), Ref., 36. Wood ducks, Ref., 117. See Duck. Woodpeckers, Ref., 2, 99, 292, 313. INDEX 323 Woodpeckers, Downy, Ref., 28, 244, 275. m ' " Redheaded, Ref., 4, 117 (evidently). " Yellow-bellied sapsucker, Ref., 6. Wren, Ref., 58, 99, 105, 127, 159, 190, 213, 239, 256. " House, Ref., 182. " Marsh (evidently either long or short billed), Ref., Meadow-lark, page 80. Alauda magna is the old name given by Linnaeus. The modern scientific name is Sturnella magna. Field-fares, page 186, stanza 3. Here evidently not the true field-fare (a European thrush), but any small bird, like the sparrows, that lives in the fields. Cliff Swallow, page 229, stanza 4. Note here an apparent error — the American martin never rests under the eaves, though the English martin does. Probably the poet knew this perfectly, and merely used a poetic liberty, making ' < martin " synonymous with * « swal- low." AUG 31 1300 Illinium LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 021 100 743 6