"A little bird in suit 



Of sombre olive, soft and brown, 



With greenish gold its vest is fringed, 



Its tiny cap is ebon-tinged, 



With ivory pale its wings are barred, 



And its dark eyes are tender starred. 



'Dear bird/ I said, 'what is thy name?' 



And thrice the mournful answer came, 



So faint and far and yet so near — 



'Pewee ! Pewee ! Pewee !' " 



— Trowbridge. 



November. 



In cold weather the little gray Chicka- 

 dee cheers us with his "tiny voice" — 

 "Gay and polite, a cheerful cry, 

 Chick-chickadedee ! Saucy note, 

 Out of sound heart and merry throat ! 

 This scrap of valor, just for play, 

 Fronts the north wind with waistcoat 

 gray." 



— Emerson. 



October. 



This brown month surely belong to the 

 sparrows. 



"Close beside my garden gate 

 Hops the sparrow, light, sedate/' 

 * * * "There he seems to peek and 

 peer, 



And to twitter, too, and tilt 

 The bare branches in betweeen 

 With a fond, familiar mien." 



— Lathrop. 



December. 



The sleep of the earth has begun under 

 the white, thick snow. The Owl is 

 abroad by night — 

 "A flitting shape of fluffy down 

 In the shadow of the woods, 

 Tu-wit ! tu-whoo !' I wish I knew ; 



Tell me the riddle, I beg — 

 Whether the egg was before the Owl 



Or the Owl before the egg?" 



Arranged by Ella F. Mosby. 



So when the night falls and the dogs do howl, 

 Sing ho! for the reign of the horned owl. 



We know not alway 



Who are kings by day, 

 But the king of the night is the bold brown owl. 



— Barry Cornwall. 



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