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Winter has no terror for the bluebird. 

 Here in the land of his birth he flits and 

 sings a true provincial, clinging ever more 

 and more to dear, familiar, homely ways. 

 The redbird bears him company. So does 

 that pert, black-coated fellow, with rust-red 

 breast, and smart small-clothes of lavender. 

 "Joe Ree," the country folk call him, from 

 his last insistent note. He nests low on 

 the ground, in some sedge tussock, or the 

 spreading ambush of a branchy weed. His 

 song mounts aloft a bubbling melody of 

 trills and turns, sounding always higher, 

 clearer, to the last rollicking call, "Joe-ree! 

 joe-ree ! joe-ree-ter !" 



He fares far afield a shy fellow that 

 only the wind, the rain, the dew, the wood- 

 sprites know intimately. These flights of 

 circling swallows cling to human company. 

 Almost they cover the face of the sunset 

 sky wheeling, dipping, closing to ever-nar- 

 rower round, as one by one they drop to 

 shelter in the tall chimney-throat. Within 

 it, the rumble of their fluttering wings is 

 thunderous, yet the farm-folk would on no 

 account drive them away. Lightning never 

 strikes the chimney wherein swallows roost 

 at least so they firmly believe. They 

 think, too, with Dan Shakespeare, 



