RESTING TIME OF THE BIRDS 



they did not care for my bird boxes and 

 let them alone, much to my delight. 

 Then came the bluebirds, bringing to 

 our cold, raw spring their flashes of 

 blue like bits of a heaven that is fairer 

 than ours, a blue that is hope and 

 dreams of happiness and all things noble 

 yet gentle. There is no color like it as 

 it glints across pale April skies and 

 blooms on trees that have been bare and 

 gray so long. So, too, no bird song is 

 so dear as theirs. It is but a wee, 

 melodious phrase which says again and 

 again, "Cheerily; cheerily." Yet it 

 voices hope and contentment, and is so 

 purely the expression of the joy of 

 gentle, kindly lives that it touches all 

 that is fond and kindly in the listener. 



Bluebirds will nest in the hollow of 

 the pasture apple tree or in a last year's 

 flicker's abandoned hole in a decayed 

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