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As usual the poet moralises this very effectively. When in human beings the springs of life are dried up and when our branches, too, show the vacant nests of spring, yet with his optimistic outlook on life he trusts

that, like the birds of spring, Our good goes not without repair, But only flies to soar and sing

Far off in some diviner air,

Where we shall find it in the calms

Of that fair garden 'neath the palms.

The same image of the forsaken and outworn nest which we found so suggestive to other poets is used in The Parting of the Ways. As old age approaches, the senses are bereft of their keenness and become like superannuated nests.

These senses, quivering with electric beats,

Too soon will show, like nests on wintry boughs,
Obtrusive emptiness, too palpable wreck,

Which whistling north winds line with downy snow
Sometimes, or fringe with foliaged rime, in vain,

Thither the singing birds no more return.

Once more in Auf Wiedersehen the same thought

is expressed.

Two watched yon oriole's pendent dome,

That now is void and dank with rain,

-oh, hope more frail than foam !

And one

The bird to his deserted home

Sings not "Auf wiedersehen ".

The poet measures time by this bird. Instead of saying 'tis fifty years since, he puts it more poetically thus :

The oriole's fledglings fifty times

Have flown from our familiar elms.

The oriole comes into Under the Willows, where his nest-building is fully described.

Hush! 'tis he!

My oriole, my glance of summer fire,
Is come at last, and, ever on the watch,
Twitches the pack-thread I had lightly wound
About the bough to help his housekeeping-
Twitches and scouts by turns, blessing his luck,
Yet fearing me who laid it in his way,
Nor, more than wiser we in our affairs,
Divines the providence that hides and helps.
Heave ho! heave ho! he whistles as the twine
Slackens its hold; once more now, and a flash
Lightens across the sunlight to the elm,

Where his mate dangles at her cup of felt.

Now the oriole is an unknown bird to us, but apart from the fact that we have seen it in museums, have seen pictures of it in natural history books and have read of its pendent nest which rocks in the wind, and so forth, we have from these numerous descriptions of it a very good and no doubt absolutely correct idea of the bird-its orange

throat, its hanging dome-roofed nest, its cheery

note.

So is it with the bobolink which is more in evidence even than the oriole.

Meanwhile that devil-may-care the bobolink,
Remembering duty, in mid-quaver stops,

Just ere he sweeps o'er rapture's tremulous brink,
And 'twixt the winrows most demurely drops,

A decorous bird of business, who provides

For his brown mate and fledglings six besides,
And looks from right to left, a farmer 'mid his crops.

Describing the New England summer which "with one great gush of blossom storms the world,' he gives a poetic poetic rendering of the bobolink's song, something after the manner of Tennyson's Throstle:

But now, oh rapture! sunshine winged and voiced,

Pipe blown through by the warm wild breath of the West,
Shepherding his soft droves of fleecy cloud,
Gladness of woods, skies, waters, all in one—

The bobolink has come, and like the soul
Of the sweet season vocal in a bird,

Gurgles in ecstasy we know not what

Save June! Dear June! Now God be praised for June.

The bird comes into The Biglow Papers even, nó picture of an American June being complete without this feathered songster.

June's bridesman, poet o' the year,

Gladness on wings, the bobolink is here;
Half hid in tip-top apple bloom he swings,
Or climbs against the breeze with quiverin' wings,
Or givin' way to't in a mock despair,

Runs down, a brook o' laughter, thru the air.

Glancing at the conventions of poets who do not look at things for themselves, or if they do, are afraid to give expression to what they see, preferring to talk o' daisies, larks, an' things

Ez though we'd nothin' here that blows an' sings,

he roundly affirms :—

Why, I'd give more for one live bobolink

Than a square mile o' larks in printer's ink.

Another bird-the phoebe-so called from its note, has a whole poem devoted to its praise. It sings this plain note at earliest dawn before the other birds are awake, and the poet throws much pathos and imagination into his reflections on the sad, plaintive cadence of this little waif in feathers. It is a wee sad-coloured thing,

As shy and secret as a maid,
That, ere in choir the robins sing,
Pipes its own name like one afraid.

It seems pain-prompted to repeat
The story of some ancient ill,
But Phoebe! Phoebe ! sadly sweet
Is all it says, and then is still.

Phoebe is all it has to say

In plaintive cadence o'er and o'er,
Like children that have lost their way,

And know their names but nothing more.

I, in strange lands at grey of dawn,

Wakeful, have heard that fruitless plaint
Through memory's chambers deep withdrawn,
Renew its iterations faint.

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Al Fresco,, from which we have already quoted passages on bees, must be drawn upon again for birds.

The robin sings, as of old, from the limb,

The cat-bird croons in the lilac bush!
Through the dim arbour, himself more dim,
Silently hops the hermit thrush,

The withered leaves keep dumb for him.

O unestranged birds and bees!
O face of Nature always true!
O never unsympathising trees!
O never rejecting roof of blue!

Methinks my heart from each of these
Plucks part of childhood back again,
Long there imprisoned, as the breeze
Doth every hidden odour seize

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