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he passes over the yellow, many-colored woods ; and its melancholy air 
recalls to our minds the approaching decay of the face of nature. 
Even after the trees are stripped of 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 Ave 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 representative in Britain, the Robin Red-breast. 
A small acknowledgment 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 ; 
AVhen red glow the maples, so fresh and so pleasing, 
0 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: 
0 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 caitiff's that lurk in their bosoms ; 
Hi; drags the vile grub from the corn he 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. 
The ploughman is pleased when he gleans in his train, 
Now searching the furrows — now mounting to cheer him ; 
The gardener delights in his sweet simple strain, 
And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him ; 
Vol. II.— 11 
