i EaAUID UO NEB ULE E WIN ahs, 
Photograph by A. M. Bailey 
THE GROUSE WOULD CROUCH, EYEING EACH OTHER 
Nostalgia In Florida 
’Tis spring in the cold North. If I were there 
I’d hear the raucous crows, the shrilling hawks declare 
The season. There would be reluctant snow 
In shadowed hollows. Even so, 
Along its crisped edge there would be seen 
Small gallant plants that struggled to be green: 
And from the copse, across the field away, 
I’d hear the lusty calling of a jay. 
Spring, too, in the hot South where now [I lie. 
The kites and buzzards, in a cloudless sky, 
Perform their prodigies of graceful flight 
O’er palms and pines and living oaks, bedight 
With festooned moss. A dreamy mindlessness 
Approves the Green of plumy cypresses; 
But starts, awake, when comes from yonder “bay” 
The old, familiar fluting of a jay. 
EDWARD R. Forp. 
