159 

 "Where this bird bides, the air is delicate." 



What wonder they have welcome for the 

 winged protectors from wrath of heaven and 

 plagues of earth? Only sharp frost shall 

 banish this circling multitude. Through 

 chill mornings they lie late abed, nor stream 

 away till nine o' the clock, to skim and 

 wheel high under the waning sun. When 

 the pinch comes they vanish, nor pause nor 

 stay their wings till the southland welcomes 

 them. Year after year their constant wings 

 return to the birth - spot, there to mark 

 spring's high flood. 



A jocund time this should be. The earth, 

 the fulness thereof, lies smiling peace to a 

 perfect heaven. Yet somehow there creeps 

 in an under-note a wailing minor of loss 

 and waste. Faint, ah, so faint ! you hear it 

 in the singing waters, the full, rich, rustling 

 leaves, the low winds sighing out of the sky 

 to lose them as wafts of balm. Through 

 them September saith to this fair world, 

 " Laugh, dance, lie in the sun ; eat, drink, 

 and be merry. To-morrow you must die." 



