THE E GRET^S Y OUNG. 



ELIZA WOODWORTH. 



Beside a quiet stream the egrets build, 



And, friendly, crowd their nests of wattled sticks 

 In clustered trees, then patient keep unchilled 



Their sea-blue eggs, and hear the first fajnt pricks 

 Against the shells; and soon each wistful brood 



Beneath the mother's breast will doze or wake; 

 And soon each parent pair will wing with food 



From waded shallows brown, and marsh and brake. 

 Between the flights they rest and tranquil look 



Far down the glade from boughs or dusky nests, 

 And see the deer that wend beside the brook, 



And partridge coveys, with their freckled breasts. 

 Oh, lives like sunny hours! Oh, peaceful glade. 



Where glow the early flowers! What hunters steal 

 Along the stream, with rifles softly laid 



At hand, while slips the skiff on noiseless keel? 



The shots half-blind the air with curling haze, 

 And from his lookout perch the watcher falls; 



The nested mother lifts her head to gaze. 



And wounded, flutters down with hollow c^lls. 



And, bleeding prone, perchance she mourns her young, 



And hears, as far away, their startled cries. 

 And longs for pleasant haunts she lived among. 



While in an anguished dream she slowly dies. 



From off the gentle head they cut the crest, 

 They loose the wedding* plumes which veil the wings 



And rend the beauty-tuft from out the breast — 

 Then each a mangled body downward flings. 



The dimmed white forms strew all the blossomed ground, 

 While clustered trees but bear the wailing young; 



Their plaintive little voices shrilling, sound 

 From swiftly chilling nests, once gayly swung. 



Unfathered broods! In vain with hunger-calls 



They grieve through woeful hours the helpless air; 



Unmothered nests! How cold the darkness falls 

 On h-armless, tender heads, uncovered there. 



They live the painful night and feebly stir 



At dawn; with famine shine the golden eyes; 

 They gape their mouths and seem to hear the whir 



Of mother-wings speed past through empty skies. 



And no more piteous sight the sun may see 



Than where those parent birds lie dead; nor wakes 



A sadder tone than the forsaken plea 



Of famished broods that o'er their silence breaks. 



Fainter and fainter sink the whispered cries. 



As wanes the life and creeps the deadly chill. 

 Till wings are numb, and closed the hungry eyes. 



While droop the downy heads, a7id all is still. 



*The weddiuer plumes, which are esteemed the most valuable of all, are worn by the birds only during- 

 brooding- time. Heuce the special reason for hunting egrets at that season. 



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