From Pillar to Post 



hand, but each a stanza, now, in the poem : Oc- 

 tober. Still nearer, the bluebird, telling over 

 the joys of long summer days or carrying the 

 message of the frosty air, making merry over 

 the past, finding nothing but happiness in the 

 present. The song of the bluebird straightens 

 many a crooked line as we listen. All the snakes 

 in the meadow may hiss at once, but the blue- 

 bird's voice will be heard above them. By so 

 much my Eden of to-day is in advance of the 

 Eden of old. 



The tall growths of the weedy marsh are 

 stately still. They have grown gray, and many 

 a seared blossom is a sad reminder of departed 

 strength, but the dignity of age remains. The 

 reed, the mallow, and the rank wild rice have 

 the art of growing old gracefully, something 

 too often neglected among mankind. Clustered 

 in the marsh, they were but the homes of sum- 

 mer birds when I last saw them, but now they 

 invite to individual inspection and stand the 

 test of my exacting mood. The marsh-wrens 

 have departed and the king-rail and little bit- 

 tern no longer skulk in the weedy wilderness, 

 but I have no feeling as of one wandering 

 through a deserted house. The guests are gone, 



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