SAXICOLA SIALIS. 
174 
lingers over liis native fields, as if loth to leave 
About the middle or end of November, few or 
of them are seen ; but, with every return of niil<' 
open weather, we hear his plaintive note amidst 1 
fields, or in the air, seeming to dejjlore the devastat'®^^ 
of winter. Tndeed, ho appears scarcely ever to.all) 
forsake us ; but to follow fair weather through ’ ' 
journeyings till the return of spriug. 
Such arc the mild and pleasing manners of the W” 
bird, and so universally is he esteemed, that I l"*j, 
often regretted that no pastoral muse has yet arise” ^ 
this western tvoody world, to do justice to his 
and endear him to ns still more by the tenderness 
verse, as has been done to his representative in Brib'h; 
the robin redbreast. A small acknowledgment ot 
kind I have to offer, which the reader, I hope, " 
excuse as a tribute to rural innocence. 
When winter's cohl tempests an<? snows are no more? 
Green meadows and brown furrow’d lield.s re-appearmg; 
The fishermen haulinjf their shad to tlie shore, 
And clotid-cltniTing }j:ecse to the lakes are a-stoering; 
When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing, 
WTien re<l glow the majiles, so fresh and so pleasing, 
O then eome-s the bluebird, the herald of spring f 
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 ami sassafras lunlding together: 
O then to your gardens ye housewives repair, 
Your walks border up, sow and plant at your leisure; 
The bluebird will chant from Ids box such an air, 
That all your hard toils will seem truly a pleasure ! 
lie flits through the orchard, he visits each tree, 
The red flowering peach, and the apple’s sweet blossocn^^ 
He snaps up destroyers wherever they lie, 
And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms ; 
He drags tiie vile grub from the corn it ilcvoiu's, 
The worms from the webs, where they riot and welter J 
His song and his services freely are ours, 
And ail that he asks is — in summer a shelter. 
