60 Twelve Months With 



O'er which the friendly elm-tree heaves 

 An emerald roof with sculptured eaves. 



Below, the noisy World drags by 

 In the old way, because it must, 



The bride with heartbreak in her eye, 

 The mourner following hated dust : 



Thy duty, winged flame of Spring, 



Is but to love, and fly, and sing." 



Another favorite May bird, quaint and Quaker- 

 like in character, which I have loved since my boy- 

 hood days when every country bridge offered a 

 shelter for his nest, is the phoebe, of which, also, 

 Lowell sings : 



"Ere pales in Heaven the morning star, 



A bird, the loneliest of its kind, 

 Hears Dawn's faint footfall from afar 



While all its mates are dumb and blind. 



It is a wee sad-colored thing, 



As shy and secret as a maid, 



That, ere in choir the robins sing, 



Pipes its own name like one afraid. 



It seems pain-prompted to repeat 

 The story of some ancient ill, 



But Phoebe! Phoebe! sadly sweet 

 Is all it says, and then is still." 



The phoebe is homey, domestic and trustful, 

 and his quiet ways win the affections of us all. His 



