228 IN THE DAYS OF AUDUBON 



When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing, 



When red grow the maples, 'mid swelling buds burning, 



Oh then comes the bluebird, the herald of spring, 

 And hails with his warblings the season's returning. 



Then loud-piping frogs make the marshes to ring, 



Then warm glows the sunshine, and fine is the weather; 

 Then blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring, 



And spice-wood and sassafras budding together. 

 Oh then to your gardens, ye housewives, repair, 



Your walks border up, sow and plant at your leisure; 

 The bluebird will chant from his box such an air, 



That all your hard toils will seem truly a pleasure. 



He fiits through the orchard, he visits each tree, 



The red-flowering peach, and the apple's sweet blossoms; 

 He snaps up destroyers wherever they be, 



And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms; 

 He draws the vile grub from the corn it devours, 



The worms from their webs where they riot and welter; 

 His song and his services freely are ours, 



And all that he asks is in summer a shelter. 



The plowman is pleased when he gleans in his train, 



Now searching the furrows, now mounting to cheer him; 

 The gard'ner delights in his sweet simple strain, 



And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him; 

 The slow-ling'ring schoolboys forget they'll be chid, 



While gazing intent as he warbles before 'em, 

 In mantle of sky-blue, and bosom so red, 



That each little loiterer seems to adore him. 



