BIRDS AND POETS SF 
—have not, as I am aware of, yet had reared to 
them their merited poetic monument, unless, in- 
deed, the already named poet of the mockingbird 
has done this service for the hermit thrush in his 
“President Lincoln’s Burial Hymn.” Here the 
threnody is blent of three chords, the blossoming 
lilac, the evening star, and the hermit thrush, the 
latter playing the most prominent part throughout 
the composition. It is the exalting and spiritual 
utterance of the “solitary singer” that calms and 
consoles the poet when the powerful shock of the 
President’s assassination comes upon him, and he 
flees from the stifling atmosphere and offensive lights 
and conversation of the house, 
“Forth to hiding, receiving night that talks not, 
Pown to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the 
dimness, 
To the solemn shadowy cedars and ghostly pines so still.’? 
Numerous others of our birds would seem to chal- 
lenge attention by their calls and notes. There is 
the Maryland yellow-throat, for instance, standing 
in the door of his bushy tent, and calling out as 
you approach, “which way, sir! which way, sir!” 
If he says this to the ear of common folk, what 
would he not say to the poet? One of the pewees 
says “stay there!’ with great emphasis. The car- 
dinal grosbeak calls out “what cheer,” “what 
cheer ;”? the bluebird says “purity,” “purity,” 
“purity ;” the brown thrasher, or ferruginous 
thrush, according to Thoreau, calls out to the farmer 
planting his corn, “drop it,” “drop it,” “cover 
