The Pewee 



'Twas now a sorrow in the air, 

 Some nymph's immortalized despair 

 Haunting the woods and waterfalls; 

 And now, at long, sad intervals, 

 Sitting unseen in dusky shade, 

 His plaintive pipe some fairy played, 



With long-drawn cadence thin and clear, 



" Pe-wee ! pe-wee ! peer ! " 



I quit the search, and set me down 



Beside the brook, irresolute, 



And watched the little bird in suit 

 Of sober olive, soft and brown, 



Perched in the maple branches, mute; 

 With greenish gold its vest was fringed, 

 Its tiny cap was ebon-tinged, 

 With ivory pale its wings were barred, 

 And its dark eyes were tender-starred. 

 "Dear bird," I said, " What is thy name?" 

 And thrice the mournful answer came, 

 So faint and far, and yet so near, 



" Pe-wee ! pee-wee ! peer ! ' ' 



JOHN T. TROWBRIDGE. 



PHOEBE. WATER PEWEE 



There he sits on a branch, in an attitude that would 

 shock the neat songsters. His wings droop at his sides, 

 and his tail hangs down in the most negligent fashion. 

 He seems the personification of listlessness; but, focus 

 your glass on him, his wings are vibrating, and his tail 

 jerks nervously at intervals. Suddenly he starts into 



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