^T^HE Grachles are here and that is quite clear. 



The morning is ringing, — not with their singing. 

 But with their talking, they're 'piping and squawking 

 Some scandalous ditty, the more then's the pity. 

 The Grackles are here, thafs plain to your ear 

 And also your eye, for under the sky 

 Their bottle-green throats and dark purple coats 

 Are as fair as yoti'll find, to a tailor-bird's mind. — 

 But song, — what commotion, they haven't a notion. 

 Each harsh rasping iiote, it sticks in the throat. 

 For song we'll go then to an old Guinea hen. 

 She'll sing us Heydiddle to a broken-back fiddle. 

 But song do not tackle, you croaking old Grackle, 



