From Pillar to Post 



whole-souled summer song, I was certain, and 

 listened eagerly, peering into the thicket before 

 me. But no, there were but those few notes; 

 not loud, not exuberant, but full of depressing 

 suggestion. Summer was past, as the thrush 

 saw the world about it. The bird knew full well 

 the meaning of that colored leaf, of the wilder- 

 ness of yellow bloom that canopied the brook, 

 of the purple veil thrown over half the waste- 

 land. It felt, too, the trifling trace of chill that 

 came with the evening breeze. The happy days 

 were over. If it sang at all, it would be to drive 

 away dull care; whistling to keep up its cour- 

 age until it, too, left its home and all the happi- 

 ness of a short-lived summer. 



Farewell, the greenwood tree, 



This shady dell; 

 This home, so dear to me, 



Tarewell, farewell. 



Then, briefly, the thrush was roused by its 

 thoughts to a somewhat livelier mood, and the 

 song of June was sung as in other days; yet 

 not quite the same. I could not be deaf to a 

 trace of sadness running through it all. There 

 was now left no fresh, green leaf, nor even one 



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