WHAT OTHERS SAV. 469 



greet the world every summer's morning", and later by the evening ves- 

 pers which they bring to the tired farmer's door. But have we ever 

 paused in. an interlude of the singing to think that there are others 

 whose life and whose work would be incomplete without these same 

 birds ? For what, indeed, would poetry be without the birds ? What 

 could the poet use as a substitute were these serial singers to be sud- 

 denly wiped out of existence ? 



Resting under the friendly shade of a stout-hearted tree, you have 

 looked out upon the surrounding summer landscape. You have noted the 

 thriving field, the ripening grain, the perfumed flowers, and you have 

 noted how peaceful and quiet was all summer life about you, not a 

 breath stirring, not even a bird singing to break the stillness— not a bird 

 singing ? Oh yes ! Now that you begin to listen for them there are one, 

 two and three chirping cheerily from an adjacent grove, seemingly not 

 in the least offended because you overlooked them before. 



In the same cheery way the bird sings in poetry. You may not 

 notice him but you would miss him were he not there. Never yet has 

 there been produced a true and beautiful word picture of a summer 

 scene but the bird and his singing have been lovingly noted. Thus 

 Longfellow in his poem "Autumn" makes mention of them in this way: 



"Through the trees 

 A 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 while aloud 

 From cottage roofs the warbling blue bird sings'." 



Lowell, in painting his beautiful picture of autumn in ' An Indian 

 Summer Reverie," amid descriptions of hills, valleys, trees and sky brings 

 in these suggestive lines: 



"Far distant sounds the hidden chickadee, 

 "The sobered robin, hunger silent now, 

 Seeks cedar berries blue, his autumn cheer." 



Not even disdaining to mention a less romantic bird he writes of 



"The cock's shrill trump that tells of scattered corn. 

 Passed breezily on by all his flapping mates." 



Farther on his eyes arc raised above the frost tinted trees and he 

 notes: 



"Silently overhead the hen hawk sails, 



With watchful measuring eye and far his quarry waits." 



