BLUE BLRD. 59 



their leaves, he still lingers over his native fields, as if loth to 

 leave them. About the middle or end of November, few or 

 none of them are seen ; but, with every return of mild and 

 open weather, we hear his plaintive note amidst the fields, or 

 in the air, seeming to deplore the devastations of winter. 

 Indeed, he appears scarcely ever totally to forsake us ; but 

 to follow fair weather through all its journeyings till the 

 return of spring. 



Such are the mild and pleasing manners of the blue bird, 

 and so universally is he esteemed, that I have often regretted 

 that no pastoral muse has yet arisen in this Western woody 

 world to do justice to his name, and endear him to us still 

 more by the tenderness of verse, as has been done to his repre- 

 sentative in Britain, the robin redbreast. A small acknow- 

 ledgment of this kind I have to offer, which the reader, I hope, 

 will excuse as a tribute to rural innocence. 



When winter's cold tempests and snows are no more, 



Green meadows and brown furrowed fields re-appearing, 

 The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore, 



And cloud-cleaving geese to the lakes are a- steering ; 

 When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing, 



When red glow the maples, so fresh and so pleasing, 

 then comes the blue bird, the herald of spring ! 



And hails with his warblings the charms of the season. 



Then loud-piping frogs make the marshes to ring ; 



Then warm glows the sunshine, and fine is the weather ; 

 The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring, 



And spicewood and sassafras budding together : 

 then to your gardens, ye housewives, repair, 



Your walks border up, sow and plant at your leisure ; 

 The blue bird will chant from his box such an air, 



That all your hard toils will seem truly a pleasure ! 



He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree, 



The red-flowering peach, and the apple's sweet blossoms ; 

 He snaps up destroyers wherever they be, 



And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms ; 

 He drags the vile grub from the corn it devours, 



The worms from their webs, where they riot and welter ; 

 His song and his services freely are ours, 



And all that he asks is — in summer a shelter. 



