BIRDS MD NftTURE. 



ILLUSTRATED BY COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY. 



THE PASSING OF MARCH. 



The braggart March stood in the season's door 



With his broad shoulders blocking up the way, 

 Shaking the snow-flakes from the cloak he wore, 



And from the fringes of his kirtle gray. 

 Near by him April stood with tearful face, 



With violets in her hands, and in her hair 

 Pale, wild anemones; the fragrant lace 



Half-parted from her breast, which seemed like fair, 



Dawn-tinted mountain snow, smooth-drifted there. 



She on the blusterer's arm laid one white hand, 



But he would none of her soft blandishment. 

 Yet did she plead with tears none might understand, 



For even the fiercest hearts at last relent. 

 And he, at last, in ruffian tenderness. 



With one swift, crushing kiss her lips did greet, 

 x\h, poor starved heart ! — for that one rude caress. 



She cast her violet underneath his feet. 



— Robert Burns Wilson. 



97 



