32 Bird Day Book 



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THE MOURNING DOVE 



■♦^♦• 



SEEK open woods or tree-girt fields 

 Beneath a sky of blue; 

 A plaintive voice such woodland yields — 

 "Coo-coo-a-coo-coo." 



You'll rarely glimpse the gray-brown wing 



Or breast of topaz hue, 

 Or glistening head — a jewelled thing; 



You'll hear, "Coo-coo-a-coo." 



"Why grievest thou, O Mourning Dove? 



Is thy sweet mate untrue?" 

 He only answers — to his love — 



"Coo-coo — I love you." 



By chance you'll find the flat, crude nest, 



Eggs white, or babies two; 

 'Tis not the young, in voice distressed. 



That cry, "Coo-coo-a-coo !" 



Each morn and night, on swiftest wings 



To waters hid from view. 

 Doves fly ; drink deep of crystal springs, 



And murmur, "Coo-a-coo." 



—A. B. B. 



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