Identifier: cu31924022541563 (find matches)
Title: A year with the birds
Year: 1917 (1910s)
Authors: Ball, Alice Eliza, 1867- Horsfall, R. Bruce (Robert Bruce), 1869-1948
Subjects: Birds Birds
Publisher: New York : Gibbs & Van Vleck
Contributing Library: Cornell University Library
Digitizing Sponsor: MSN

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et—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer. A lofty place he does not love. But sits by choice, and well at ease In hedges, and in little treesThat stretch their slender arms above The meadow-brook; and there he sings Till all the field with pleasure rings;And so he tells in every earThat lowly homes to heaven are nearIn Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer. Henry van Dyke *NOTB—Reprinted by permission of Charles Scribners Sons. 63 The Bluebird 0 bird of blue, with your robe from the sky,And a flame in your red-brown breast, When the home-love burns, from the South you fly,To the chill of your northern nest. Tru-ly—tru-ly—^tru-ly. 0 wonderful bird with the loyal heart.To your home and mate you are true; Our own hearts leap, when the cold March daysBring the first glad sight of you. Tru-ly—tru-ly—tru-ly. 0 beautiful bird with the tender note You sing of the days to be;You promise bright skies and an earth renewed, And we wait expectantly. Tru-ly—^tru-ly—tru-ly. A. E. B. 54
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BLUEBIRD The Bluebird Hark! tis the bluebirds venturous strainHigh on the old fringed elm at the gate:Sweet-voiced, valiant on the swaying bough, Alert, elate.Dodging the fitful spits of snow,New Englands poet laureateTelling us that Spring has come again! Thomas Bailey Aldrich From stake to stake a bluebird flewAlong the fence and sang. From Maurice Thompsons Plowboy 55 The Bluebird I am so blithe and glad today! At morn I heard a bluebird sing; The bluebird, warbling soul of spring, The prophet of the leafy May,— And I knew the violets under the tree Would listen and look the birds to see, Peeping timidly, here and there. In purple and odor to charm the air; And the wind-flower lift its rose-veined cup, In the leaves of the old year buried up; And all the delicate buds that bloom On the moss-beds, deep in the forest gloom, Would stir in their slumber, and catch the strain And dream of the sun and the April rain,— For spring has come when the bluebird sings. And folds in the mapl

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