1895.] 
'■'■Beautiful and Brave Was He.” 
59 
i 
THE SONG OF THE YEEEY. 
The moonbeams over Arno’s vale a silver flood were pouring, 
When first I heard the nightingale his long-lost love deploring. 
So passionate, so full of pain, it sounded strange and eerie ; 
I longed to hear a simpler strain, — the wood-notes of the veery. 
The laverock sings a bonny lay above the Scottish heather; 
It sprinkles down from far away like light and love together ; 
He drops the golden notes to greet his brooding mate, his dearie ; 
I only know one song more sweet, — the vespers of the veery. 
In English gardens, green and bright and full of fruity treasure, 
I heard the blackbird with delight repeat his merry measure : 
The ballad was a pleasant one, the tune was loud and cheery, 
And yet, with every setting sun, I listened for the veery. 
But far away, and far away, the tawny thrush is singing ; 
New England woods, at close of day, with that clear chant are ringing. 
And when my light of life is low, and heart and flesh are weary, 
I fain would hear, before I go, the wood-notes of the veery. 
Henry van Dyke. 
“ BEAUTIFUL AND BltAVE WAS HE.” 
June was drawing to a close : hermit 
thrushes and veeries had turned their 
energies to seeking food for hungry 
young mouths ; rose-breasted grosbeaks 
and golden orioles, as well as their more 
humbly clad fellow-creatures, were pass- 
ing their days near the ground, in the 
same absorbing work ; treetops were de- 
serted, and singing was nearly over. 
It was well, then, that I should leave 
my beloved woods, and betake myself 
to a barren country road where, in a 
lonely thorn-tree, a bird of another sort 
than these had set up late housekeeping. 
The reputation of this bird of solita- 
ry tastes is not attractive. He is quar- 
relsome and unfriendly with his kind, 
and aggressive and malicious toward 
others, says the Oracle. His pleasure 
is to torture and destroy ; no sweet 01- 
tender sentiment may cling about his 
life ; in fact, he is altogether unlovely. 
So declare the books, and so, with ad- 
ditions and exaggerations, says nearly 
every one who takes birds for his theme. 
He is branded everywhere as the “ butch- 
er-bird,” and it seems to be the aim of 
each writer to discover in his conduct 
something a little more sanguinary, a 
shade more depraved, than any prede- 
cessor has done. 
Now, if the truth is what we are seek- 
ing, is it not desirable to see for our- 
selves, or, as Emerson puts it, “ leave oth- 
ers’ eyes, and bring your own ” ? If one 
can give to the task patient observation, 
with a loving spirit, a desire to interpret 
faithfully and to see the best instead of 
the worst, may he not perchance find 
that the bird is not the monster he is 
