THE BLUE BIRD. 



" Drifting down the first warm wind 



That thrills the earliest days of spring, 



The Bluebird seeks our maple groves 

 And charms them into tasselling." 



" He sings, and his is Nature's voice — 



A gush of melody sincere 

 From that great fount of harmony 



Which thaws and runs when Spring is here." 



" Short is his song, but strangely sweet 



To ears aweary of the low 

 Dull tramps of Winter's sullen feet. 



Sandalled in ice and muflQed in snow." 



' Think, every morning, when the sun peeps through 

 The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove. 



How jubilant the happy birds renew 

 Their old, melodious madrigals of love ! 



And when you think of this, remember, too, 

 'Tis always morning somewhere, and above 



The awakening continents, from shore to shore, 



Somewhere the birds are singing evermore. 



Think of your woods and orchards without birds ! 



Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams 

 As in an idiot's brain remembered words 



Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams ! 

 Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds 



Make up for the lost music, when your teams 

 Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more 

 The feathered gleaners follow to your door?" 



From "The Birds oi^ Kii,i,ingsworth. 



86 



