MAY 



13 



I hear the song of the veery down there under 

 the willows. It is a weird, ventriloquial song. 

 The bird seems making its gypsy music to itself, 

 not to the world. . . . The song of the veery has 

 in it the tinkling of bells, the jangle of the tam- 

 borine. It recalls to me the gypsy chorus in the 

 " Bohemian Girl," and when I hear it as evening 

 draws on, I can picture light feet tripping over the 

 damp grass, and in the shadows made by moving 

 of branches and ferns I can see dark forms moving 

 back and forth in the windings of the dance. 



BOLLES: Land of the Lingering Snow. 



14 

 ROWLAND EVANS ROBINSON, 1833. 



Thither too the woodcock led her brood, to 

 probe the mud for worms, flying but a foot above 

 them down the bank, while they ran in a troop 

 beneath ; but at last, spying me, she would leave 

 her young and circle round and round me, nearer 

 and nearer till within four or five feet, pretending 

 broken wings and legs, to attract my attention, 

 and get off her young, who would already have 

 taken up their march, with faint wiry peep, single 

 file through the swamp, as she directed. Or I 

 heard the peep of the young when I could not see 

 the parent bird. 



THOBEAU: Walden. 



