Oh, surpassing all expression by the rhythmic use of words, Are the memories that gather of the singing of the birds: When as a child I listened to the Whip-poor-will at dark, And with the dawn awakened to the music of the Lark.
Then what a chorus wonderful when morning had begun,— The very leaves, it seemed to me, were singing to the sun, And calling on the world asleep to waken and behold The king in glory coming forth along his path of gold.
The crimson-fronted Linnet sang above the river’s edge, The Finches in the evergreens, the Thrasher in the hedge; Each one as if a dozen songs were chorused in his own, And all the world were listening to him and him alone.
In gladness sang the Bobolink upon ascending wing, With cheery voice the bird of blue, the pioneer of spring, The Oriole upon the elm, with martial note and clear, While Martins twittered gayly by the cottage window near.
Among the orchard trees were heard the Robin and the Wren, And the army of the Blackbirds along the marshy fen; The songster in the meadow and the Quail upon the wheat, And the warbler’s minor music made the symphony complete.
Beyond the tow’ring chimney’d walls that daily meet my eyes, I hold a vision beautiful beneath the summer skies; Within the city’s grim confines, above the roaring street, The Happy Birds of Memory are singing clear and sweet.
One morning after a light snow-storm, followed by sparkling sunshine, Gray Lady took the younger children out for a walk through Birdland and the lane. Not but what even the younger children knew the way! But often as they had trodden it, there were many things that they noticed for the first time: the wonderful shapes of the snow crystals, the snow flowers that blossomed on the old weed stalks, the snow filling that brought many hidden nests into view, and all the other wonders that are so often wrought in the winter night, while we sleep soundly.
Tommy and Dave, who had walked on ahead, halted suddenly and picked up a handful of feathers from the snow and stood looking at them as Gray Lady came up.
“A bad Hawk or a Crow or Owl or something big has been here,” said Dave, with a quaver in his voice, “and it’s killed a banty rooster that looks just like mine, that is, this bunch of feathers does; but then, Goldilocks has banties, too, so perhaps it is one of hers,” and he held the feathers up.