THE MARTYRED THRUSH. 



The Farmer strolled his orchard through, 



Where in the sunlight glowed, 

 Apples that in such numbers grew 



The trees bent with their load. 



He found a few pecked by the birds 



Among his portion vast. 

 The birds were doomed with cruel words, 



Their days of peace were past. 



A thrush, from his favorite tree 



Its sweetest melody sang, 

 The changing notes fell wild and free 



Till all the orchard rang. 



A shot, it shook the orchard wide. 



The air with smoke was filled, 

 A crimson jet the brown breast dyed 



And the sweet voice was stilled. 



Upon the soft green turf he lay 



Where winds were sighing low. 

 No more to sing at break of day 



When skies are all aglow. 



And is that song forever lost. 



Lost in the mystic past? 

 What cared we for the fruit it cost 



If its sweet charm might last. 



Hattie Washburn 



