The Coming of the Birds y^ 



bloom. What a glorious herald he proved ! 

 and so he always prov*J. Before the sun was 

 up I heard him in my dreams, and later the 

 fancy proved a faft. Perched at the very top 

 of an old walnut-tree, where the wintry world 

 was spread before him, he sang that song 

 peculiarly his own. 



No hint of blushing roses on the hill, 

 The buds are sleeping yet upon the plain, 



The blight of dreary winter dingeth still. 

 The forest weeps whe5e falls the chilly rain. 



Scarce hopeful leaf-buds shrink — death's solemn hush 

 Rests on the field, the meadow brook along, 



Till breaks the day, O happy day ! the thrush 

 Foretells the coming summer in a song. 



Two days later it was almost summer, and 

 tripping along the river's pebbly beach wert 

 spotted sand-pipers. They were ahead of 

 time this year, I thought, but none the less 

 happy because the trees were bare and the 

 water cold ; but, stranger still, in the sheltered 

 coves of the mill-pond, that now reflefted 

 the gold of the spice-wood and the crimson 

 of the overhanging maples, there were war- 

 blers, merry as in midsummer, and a pair, at 

 least, of small thrushes. A bittern, too, stood 



D 7 



