64 THE LOG OF THE SUN 



warms up, Mother Nature will strew his aerial 

 breakfast-table with tiny gnats, — precocious, but 

 none the less toothsome for all that. 



Hark 'tis the bluebird's venturous strain 



High on the old fringed elm at the gate — 



Sweet-voiced, valiant on the swaying bough, 

 Alert, elate, 



Dodging the fitful spits of snow, 

 New England's poet-laureate 



Telling us Spring has come again! 



Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 



