probably, have found them still later had love for their young and give them much 



he looked for them. In northern Illi- attention even after they have left the 



nois I have found them nesting from the nest, and it is said that the mother bird 



last of April to the first of August. The will brood fully fledged young, though 



eggs of these birds vary considerably she always sits crosswise of them. The 



from a true oval and are usually a glossy love notes of these Doves are famiUar 



white, though some have a rather rough to those who are acquainted with the 



surface. birds. While they are low and rather 



The Mourning Doves show a strong mournful in sound they may be heard at 



attachment for their mates throughout some distance. It seems impossible to 



the season. Both parents exhibit a true give a satisfactory syllabic description. 



Frank Morley Woodruff. 



THE RUSSET BACKED THRUSH. 



(GRAY'S HARBOR, WASHINGTON.) 



O wandering thrush ! the homeland is the best ; 

 The salmon berry blooms for thee, its guest, 

 And songs are in the air, ended thy quest. 



The forests' thine, their fragrances so sweet. 

 Afar the line where sky and mountain meet, 

 Thy message lends the charm to make complete. 



After the long and difficult ascent 



To heights where vision sweeps the firmament. 



What infinite repose thy voice hath lent ! 



Like to the fir tree's fragrances that stay 



In rich suggestions through the long sweet day. 



The echoes tell that thou hast passed that way. 



O song that lures me where the fir trees grow 



Or down into the "tide flats" far below. 



Still constant where the shadowed rivers flow ! 



Tenderest at morning, half subdued, it seems 

 Only the ending of the gladdest dreams, 

 The gentle wave beat of melodious streams. 



Triumphant when the sun sinks low behind 

 The dark hill-forests, and the searching wind 

 Is gone with day, and night is still and kind. 



'Tis then it rings in notes so sweet, so clear. 

 The very angels well might pause to hear 

 And, listening long, leave. heaven to draw near. 



And when the twilight fades, the long day done 

 Between the silences thy song rings on, 

 The voices of the night are thine alone. 



Aye, when the darkness comes, silence unstirred 

 Save by thy son, O little flute-voiced bird, 

 A truer harmony was never heard ! 



— Nelly Hart Woodworth. 



