TRAGEDY OF THE AIR.

Sweet voices midst the blossoms; Amidst the meadow-blooms; Midst mallow-buds and sedges; Midst flower-hearts by their looms; Through vistas of the forests, Round minaret and dome, The mists of mountain torrents; Through rainbows of the foam; Above the rush of waters; Above the swirl of seas; Through labyrinths of maremma— Ah yes, and more than these— Yet flashes out a remnant Of bird-wings on the air, Or floats the song-birds’ rhythms Midst slaughter and despair. Is there no human pity? In all the world so wide Can nothing stay the slaughter, Can nothing stem the tide Before, from Nature’s pageant, All bird-life joy is crushed; Before the wings lie broken Before the songs are hushed? —George Klingle.