A BIRD CALENDAR BY THE POETS. 



January. 



This is not the month of singing birds. 

 "Silently overhead the hen-hawk sails 

 With -watchful, measuring eye, and for 

 his quarry waits." 



— Lowell 



February. 



Sometimes a flock of strange birds de- 

 scends upon us from the north — the cross- 

 bills. There is an old tradition that the 

 red upon their breast was caused by the 

 blood of our Saviour, as they sought to 

 free Him with their bills from the cross. 

 "And that bird is called the Crossbill, 



Covered all with blood so dear, 

 In the groves of pine it singeth 



Songs, like legends, strange to hear." 



— Longfellow. 



May. 



This is the month of the Bobolinks. 

 "Merrily, merrily, there they hie ; 

 Now they rise and now they fly ; 

 They cross and turn and in and out, 

 And down the middle and wheel about, 

 With 'Phew, shew, Wadolincoln ; listen to 



me Bobolincoln !' 

 Happy's the wooing that's speedily do- 

 ing, 



That's merry and over with bloom of the 

 clover, 



Bobolincoln, Wadolincoln, Winterseebee, 

 follow me." 



June. 



"Then sings the Robin, he who wears 

 A sunset memory on his breast, 



Pouring his vesper hymns and prayers 

 To the red shrine of the West." 



March. 



No birds are more closely associated 

 with early spring than the swallows. 

 "Gallant and gay in their doublets grey, 



All at a flash like the darting of flame, 

 Chattering Arabic, African, Indian — 



Certain of springtime, the swallows 

 came. 



Doublets of grey silk and surcoats of 

 purple, 



Ruffs of russet round each little throat, 

 Wearing such garb, they had crossed the 

 waters, 



Mariners sailing with never a boat." 



— Sir Edwin Arnold. 



April. 



"Winged lute that we call a Bluebird, 

 You blend in a silver strain, 



The sound of the laughing waters, 

 The sound of spring's sweet rain, 



"The voice of the wind, the sunshine 

 And fragrance of blossoming things. 



Ah, you are a poem of April 



That God endowed with wings." 



July. 



The full tide of song is on the ebb, but 

 you still hear in the shadowy woods the 

 silvery notes of — 



"The wise Thrush, who sings his song 



twice over, 

 Lest you should think he never could re- 

 capture 



That first fine careless rapture." 



— Browning. 



August. 



The humming-bird. 

 "When the mild gold stars flower out, 



As the summer gloaming goes, 

 A dim shape quivers about 



Some sweet rich heart of a rose. 



"Then you, by thoughts of it stirred, 

 Still dreamily question them, 



Ts it a gem, half bird, 



Or is it a bird, half gem ?' " 



— Edgar Fawcett. 



September. 



There is something wistful in the notes 

 of the birds preparing to depart. In the 

 woods we see — 



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