THE TIDE HAS TURNED 377 
But throws its whole rapt sprite 
Into the secrets of flowers 
The summer days along, 
Into most odorous hours 
It’s a murmurous sound of wings too swift for sight. 
— Ricuarp Burton. 
THE WOOD THRUSH 
He has a coat of cinnamon brown, 
The brightest on his head and crown, 
A very low-cut vest of white 
That shines like satin in the light, 
And on his breast a hundred spots, 
As if he wore a veil with dots; 
With movement quick and full of grace, 
The highbred manner of his race ; 
A very prince of birds is he 
Whose form it is a joy to see. 
And music — was there ever heard 
A sweeter song from any bird ? 
Now clarion-like, so loud and clear, 
Now like a whisper low and near, 
And now, again, with rhythmic swells 
And tinkling harmony of bells, 
He seems to play accompaniment 
Upon some harp-like instrument. 
— Garretr Newkirk, in Bird-Lore. 
MOCKERS AND THRUSHES 
“How many of you know the Wood Thrush, or, if you do 
not know his name, can recognize him by aid of these 
verses ?” 
