When Sir Oriole Comes 



By Annie Johnson Flint 



When the oriole has come, 



Then I know that summer's here; 

 He's no Spartan, to endure 



Frost-nipped toes with smiHng cheer. 

 Long ago the waiting Spring 



Sent her mystic summons forth, 

 And in haste, with clanging cries. 



Rose the wild geese, faring north. 

 Robin came when March winds keen 



Ruffled all his feathers bright, 

 And the flicker's harsh "Ha! ha!" 



Mocked old Winter's tardy flight. 

 Bluebird followed, goldfiinch too. 



Then the summer yellowbird. 

 Acolyte at Summer's shrine ; 



All day long his chant was heard. 



So at last the stage was set 



For the court of Queen of May ; 

 Prince of all her cavaliers, 



Came Sir Oriole, blithe and gay. 

 Watch him preen his scarlet coat 



In the blossoming cherry tree. 

 Breathing in the fragrance soft; 



O, a sybarite is he! 

 Does he know — the dainty elf — 



How he glorifies the scene, 

 Like a flaming jewel set 



In the white and pearly green? 

 Did he choose the place with care? 



Little bunch of vanity! 

 Crooning, plaintive, all the while. 



Such a wooing melody. 

 Such a tender, witching call 



■ For his loitering mate to come, 

 Slim and sleek in satin gown, 



Quaker beauty, shyly dumb. 

 Now, a blazing shaft of light, 



See him flash athwart the bloom! 

 O, I know the summer's here. 



For the oriole has come. 



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