FROM A NEW ENGLAND HILLSIDE. 103 



throat, wood robin, redstart, oriole, gros 

 beak, thrush how I wish I knew them 

 all, and the meaning of their joyous calls ! 

 It scarcely seems as if it would require the 

 intervention of the cruel uncle to induce us 

 to lie upon this warm sun-flecked slope, and 

 be overspread with a leafy counterpane. 

 But I hardly think that our red-breasted 

 thrush, masquerading as robin redbreast, as 

 the white weed in its turn does as the 



Wee, modest, crimsou tipped flow r, 

 is really fully aware how 



Robin redbreast piously 

 Did cover them with leaves, 



and, just possibly, even now we might run 

 the risk of a late frost. But how good it is 

 here ! 



Under the greenwood tree 



Who loves to lie witli me, 



And turn his merry note 



Unto the sweet bird s throat 

 Come hither, come hither, come hither ! 



Here shall he see 



No enemy 

 But winter and rough weather. 



Who doth ambition shun 

 And loves to live i the sun, 



