5^ Zbe Warbler 



THE WOOD-DUCK 



Fair bird of the wood-brook, what bright recollections, 



The dyes of its irian plumage disclose; 

 Like the rainbow's soft glints shine its glossy reflections 

 Of emerald and sapphire and violet and rose: 

 ' Its long pendant crest with its plumes iridescent, 



Its wavering lines with their diamond-shaped dots, 

 Its breast lightly spanned with its lovely white crescent, 

 And starred with its snowy triangular spots. 



Some exceedingly pretty thoughts occur in his rather long poem on 



THE HUMMINGBIRD 



From summer isles of song I stray, 



With many a glittering pendant; 

 A feathered kiss flower on my way, 



So rare and so resplendent. 



The soft hues of the opal shine. 



The sapphire bright and sunny, 

 And now the topaz gleam is mine, 



And now the chalcedony. i 



That copies of many of these u Bird-Songs " have in years past been 

 sent to distinguished persons and authors is evident from the letters copied 

 with the poems. We give extracts from a few of them : 



"You have enclosed, the unbound volume of the air, embalmed the 

 echoes, and aroused the jealousies of the silence. ' : Victor Hugo. 



"I beg you to accept my thanks for the pleasure your 'Bird-Songs' 

 have afforded me. " Victoria. 



'•Your 'Bird-Songs' will live as long as the birds themselves." 



Jean Ingelow. 



"I have found myself recurring to these 'Bird-Songs' with deepen- 

 ing interest." Longfellow. 



"I consider them in connection with their musical scores a production 

 of singular beauty." Whittier. 



"They will soon sing their way into the heart of the world." 



Henry Ward Beecher. 



But who could give anything but praise to a work that contains even 

 one such tuneful gem as these three stanzas from 



THE DIPPER OR WATER OUZEL 



I am the Dipper with spray-jewelled slipper, 

 The king of the high mountain burn; 



1 haunt the crevasses, the peaks and the passes, 



That whiten the water-falls urn: 

 I flit through the rushes, the burns and the brushes, 



I dip in the scoop of the rock; 

 And where the crag tosses its spray on the mosses, 



