THE PAETEIDGE 



List the booming from afar, 

 Soft as hum of roving bee, 



Vague as when on distant bar 

 Fall the cataracts of the sea. 



Yet again, a sound astray. 



Was it the humming of the mill? 

 Was it cannon leagues away ? 



Or dynamite beyond the hill? 



'T is the grouse with kindled soul, 

 Wistful of his mate and nest. 



Sounding forth his vernal roU 

 On his love-enkindled breast. 



List his fervid morning drum. 

 List his summons soft and deep. 



Calling Spice-bush till she come, 

 Waking Bloodroot from her sleep. 



Ah ! ruffled drummer, let thy wing 

 Beat a march the days will heed. 

 Wake and spur the tardy spring. 

 Till minstrel voices jocund ring, 

 And spring is spring in very deed. 



