THE BLUE BIRD.

“Drifting down the first warm wind That thrills the earliest days of spring, The Bluebird seeks our maple groves And charms them into tasselling.”

“He sings, and his is Nature’s voice— A gush of melody sincere From that great fount of harmony Which thaws and runs when Spring is here.”

“Short is his song, but strangely sweet To ears aweary of the low Dull tramps of Winter’s sullen feet, Sandalled in ice and muffled in snow.”

“Think, every morning, when the sun peeps through The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove, How jubilant the happy birds renew Their old, melodious madrigals of love! And when you think of this, remember, too, ’Tis always morning somewhere, and above The awakening continents, from shore to shore, Somewhere the birds are singing evermore.

“Think of your woods and orchards without birds! Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams As in an idiot’s brain remembered words Hang empty ’mid the cobwebs of his dreams! Will bleat 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?” From “The Birds of Killingsworth.”