A NORTHERN NIGHTINGALE 



songs are, belong to the lesser chorus of the 

 fields. How the gaudy and impudent jay 

 suffers in comparison with such a bird as the 

 cat-bird ! 



When the leaves go, and gray winds of the 

 north smite hard on branch and thicket and 

 the snows sift over valley and meadow, the 

 cat-bird spreads his wings and disappears. 

 The loss of summer's young delights he never 

 knows, for with the fading of the season his 

 tarrying time has passed. The ice-bound 

 pools, the empty nest and naked branches, the 

 thickets piled with glittering drifts, come 

 after he has migrated. In happier valleys, 

 where the sunlight comes in a yellow flood to 

 grassy hills; where the fire of summer has 

 again been kindled and mild winds blow in 

 secluded woodland aisles, the cat-bird finds 

 the season that departed from the north. Let 

 the world's worn axle turn as it may, the cat- 

 bird's flight will follow the sun, however the 

 jay and crow stay on to brave out the eager 

 and nipping airs. 



But as the earth turns so does the bird's 

 instinct swerve to the northern hills. Over 

 Mason and Dixon's line, with the other north- 

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