thickets and swamps. It is the monk of the bird world and a singer of hymns 

 and anthems. Said Frank Bolles, one of the most eloquent celebrants of the 

 beauties of American outdoor life : "When the hermit thrush sings I feel as if 

 the pine forest had been transformed into a cathedral." 



And, again, describing his meeting with one of these birds by the lake at the 

 foot of Mount Chocorua, he says : "Then there came from the midst of the 

 dark pines nearest the shore a voice, and it seemed to me that no other voice in 

 all that wild New Hampshire valley could have come so near expressing the 

 praise, hope and beauty of that spot as the song which came softly out from the 

 shadows. 



"Those who from childhood have known the song of the hermit thrush, and 

 had it woven into the very fibers of their hearts will know how I was thrilled 

 by that voice. Others have spoken of the 'grandeur' of the hermit's song and of 

 its power to express 'serene religious beatitude.' 



The veery, or tawny thrush, is a small, cinnamon-brown bird, which some 

 persons regard as the sweetest singer of all. It is shy, like the hermit thrush, 

 and keeps to the woodlands, and often prefers marshy places. The power of its 

 music over the human spirit could not be better expressed than in Henry Van 

 Dyke's poem, where, after having proclaimed the veery's superiority to the Italian 

 nightingale, the Scottish laverock and the English blackbird, he concludes with 

 these lines : 



"But far away, and far away, the tawny thrush is singing ; 

 New England's 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." 



An Autumn Day 



By Millie Noel Long 



'Twas a calm day in Autumn, I went for a ramble, 

 A day of soft brilliance and slow-waving tree. 

 Of mystical stillness, of wondrous, hid meanings. 

 Of restful, sweet peace and of freedom for me. 



'Twas a rare day in Autumn, of sweet-smelling breezes. 

 Which bent the long-stemmed, bright-hued flowers so low. 

 They seemed to be bowing to me as I passed them 

 And dancing a minuet, stately and slow. 



'Twas a spring day in Autumn, one that was belated, 

 But brought with it all the spring's half-subdued glee, — 

 I felt it and knew it — the prairie larks proved it 

 By the wonderful story they chanted to me. 



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