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In his cool, green fastnesses of shadow they 

 might lurk and leap even through garish day. 



Maybe they sing, those small people, to 

 keep earth from bewailing her silent birds. 

 All her green, shady ways teem with winged 

 creatures big, lumpy fledglings, not yet 

 steady of wing ; early broods, all aruffle with 

 conceit ; old folk, spent and voiceless, in the 

 strain after smart new clothes. Song is a 

 memory. They flutter and preen in silence, 

 hopping from branch to bough, hovering, 

 fluttering, skimming low to earth, with head 

 aside and quick up-glancing of eyes. Now 

 and again a dropping note breaks through 

 the fresh, sweet morning, the hushed, dewy 

 eve. By and by they will be singing farewell 

 to this summer land. Already blackbirds 

 settle, in winged clouds, upon tall tree-tops, 

 and sit faintly debating their southward 

 flight. They tarry in this Jericho till their 

 wings are well-grown their voices as well. 

 Before they go hence you shall hear from 

 them clamor indeed a wild, harsh, metallic 

 crying, utterly discordant, yet full of bar- 

 baric charm. 



Master Oriole flew away at the first red 

 leaf. Too much an aristocrat for large 

 families, his nestlings came to full flight be- 

 fore the summer ended. Besides, his is a 



