Alabama, ip 13. 31 



& 



THE BLUEBIRD. 



ERE yet the frost has ceased to spread 

 Its sheets upon the grass, 

 Or rim at night the little pools 

 With brittle looking-glass, 

 Upon the ancient orchard fence 



He rests his roving wing, 

 And every morning, rain or shine. 

 He whistles to the spring. 



His plumage makes the sapphire pale, 



And shames the turquoise, too, 

 Each satin feather is so deep 



And beautiful a blue, 

 For flying northward once, he shaped 



His airy course so high, 

 His waving pinions brushed against 



The azure of the sky. 



— Minna Irving. 



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