Wood Pewee 169 
be fearfully frightened whenever a train thun- 
dered overhead? 
WOOD PEWEE 
When you have been wandering through 
the summer woods did you ever, like Trow- 
bridge, sit down 
‘‘Beside the brook, irresolute, 
And watch a little bird in suit 
Of sombre olive, soft and brown, 
Perched in the maple branches, mute? 
With greenish gold its vest was fringed, 
Its tiny cap was ebon-tinged. 
With ivory pale its wings were barred, 
And its dark eyes were tender starred. 
‘Dear bird,* I said, ‘what is thy name?’ 
And thrice the mournful answer came, 
So faint and far, and yet so near — 
‘Pewee! pe-wee! peer!* ** 
Doubtless this demure, gentle little cousin of 
the noisy, aggressive, crested flycatcher has no 
secret sorrow preying at its heart, but the ten- 
der pathos of its long-drawn notes would seem 
to indicate that it is rather melancholy. And 
it sings (in spite of the books which teach us 
that the flycatchers are “songless, perching 
birds”) from the time of its arrival from Cen- 
tral America in May until only the tireless 
indigo bunting and the red-eyed vireo are left 
in the choir in August. 
But how suddenly its melancholy languor 
