160 OUR FRIENDS, THE BIRDS. 
“Tsit much ofa singer?” questioned ‘“Querist.” 
“T can best answer that,” replied the teacher, “‘ by 
quoting what Ernest E. Thompson says in St. Nicho- 
las, ‘The Oven Bird, at.certain seasons of the year, 
rises into the air, far above the tops of the forest trees, 
and as he floats on quivering wing pours forth a loud, 
sweet, lark-like song—a song full of variety and tender- 
ness and so prolonged and powerful that one wonders 
if indeed so small a throat can really be the source of 
that volume of sweet sound.’”’ 
“Do you know who ‘Bolles’ is, Miss Sweet?” 
asked the usual questioner. ‘“‘I founda poem by him on 
THE OVEN BIRD. 
In the hollows of the mountains, 
In the valley spreading from them, 
Stand the rustling broad-leaved forests 
‘Trees whose leaves are shed in autumn. 
Underneath them lie the leaf beds, 
Resting one upon another, 
Laid there yearly by the storm winds; 
Pressed and smoothed by winter snowdrifts. 
In the days of spring migrations, 
Days when warbler hosts move northward 
‘To the forests, to the leaf beds, 
Comes the tiny oven builder. 
Daintily the leaves he tiptoes; 
Underneath them builds his oven, 
Arched and framed with last year’s oak leaves, 
Roofed and walled against the raindrops. 
