A YEAR WITH THE BIRDS 
545 
to do when trying to find out the plans that Nature makes for 
her great family. 
Later yet, when the snow begins to fall, there is no 
bird music, only the hoot of an Owl, the shrill cry of the 
Hawks, the quack, quack ” of the Nuthatch, that runs up and 
down the tree trunks like a mouse, in gray and white feath- 
ers, the jeer of the Jay, and the soft voice of the Chickadee, 
who tells you his name so prettily as he peers at you from be- 
neath his little black cap. 
But the Catbird, Wren, Bobolink, Oriole, the Cuckoo, that 
helped clear the tent caterpillars from the orchard, the Chat, 
that puzzled the dogs by whistling like their master, the beau- 
tiful Barn Swallow, with the swift wings, that had his plaster 
nest in the hayloft, the Phoebe, that built in the cowshed, and 
the dainty Humming-bird, that haunted the honeysuckle on 
the porch and hummed an ancient spinning-song to us with his 
wings, — where are they all ? 
And why is it that while those have disappeared, some few 
birds still remain with us in spite of cold and snow? 
THE FLIGHT OF THE BIRDS 
Whither away, Robin, 
Whither away? 
Is it through envy of the maple-leaf, 
Whose blushes mock the crimson of thy breast, 
Thou wilt not stay? 
The summer days were long, yet all too brief 
The happy season thou hast been our guest. 
Whither away? 
Whither away, Bluebird, 
Whither away? 
The blast is chill, yet in the upper sky 
Thou still canst find the color of thy wing, 
The hue of May. 
Warbler, why speed thy Southern flight? Ah, why, 
Thou, too, whose song first told us of the spring. 
Whither away? 
Whither away, Swallow, 
Whither away? 
Canst thou no longer tarry in the North, 
Here where our roof so well hath screened thy nest? 
Not one short day? 
Wilt thou — as if thou human wert — go forth 
And wanton far from them who love thee best? 
Whither away? 
— Edmund Clarence Stedman 
