J) 
“Do you never think what wondrous beings 
these ? 
Do you never think who made them, and who 
taught 
The dialect they speak, where melodies 
Alone are the interpreters of thought? 
Whose household words are songs in many keys 
Sweeter than instruments of man e’er taught, 
Whose habitations in the tree tops even 
Are half-way houseson the road to heaven. 
“‘Think of your woods and orchards without 
birds, 
Of empty nests that cling to bough and beams, 
As in an idiot’s brain remembered words 
Hang empty mid the cobwebs of his dreams. 
Willbleat of flocks, or bellowing of herds, 
Make up for the lost music, when your teams 
Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more 
The feathered gleaners follow to your door? 
“ You call them thieves and pillagers’; but know 
They are the winged wardens of your farms ; 
Who from the cornfield drive the insidious foe, 
And from your harvests keep a hundred harms. 
Even the blackest of them all, the crow, 
Renders good service as your man of arms, 
Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail, 
And crying havoc on the slug and snail.” 
