54 The Hawkey e O. and O. 



And the Whip-poor-will is silent, 

 And no more in woody glens 

 Do we hear the Winter Wrens. 



Now most other hirds are silent, 

 Or have vanished toward the tropics, 

 And no more we hear their warbles 

 Till the voice of spring recalls them. 

 Now among the cedar branches, 

 Or amid the wavy limhlets, 

 In the balsam and the hemlock. 

 In the pine, the birch and maple 

 We may hear the cheery wild-notes 

 Of the Golden-crested Kinglet. 



In the golden sun-lit Springtime 

 When the wild-flowers of the woodland 

 Just were peeping through the mosses 

 And the fallen leaves of Autumn; 

 When the crow was loudly cawing 

 O're the tree tops and the fallows; 

 When the Winter Wren was singing, 

 And the Saw whet's notes were ringing, 

 In the deep, dark, sheltered wiidwood 

 Did we miss the Golden Kinglet. 



Then off to the northern woodland, 

 Where the dwarfish birds and fir tree 

 Clothe the borders of the lakelet, 

 And the margins of the streamlet, 



