File:A year with the birds (1916) (14565580729).jpg

Identifier: cu31924000167100 (find matches)
Title: A year with the birds
Year: 1916 (1910s)
Authors: Ball, Alice Eliza, 1867- Horsfall, R. Bruce (Robert Bruce), 1869-1948. illus
Subjects: Birds Birds
Publisher: New York City, Gibbs & Van Vleck
Contributing Library: Cornell University Library
Digitizing Sponsor: MSN

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Text Appearing Before Image:
TOWHEE PART THREE The Later Spring Birds 95 The Migration of Birds The night comes on apace. The rain,The warm, still rain, falls soft again,I feel the breath of growing things;I seem to hear the whir of wingsOf countless birds, just marshalingTheir ranks for long, long journeying. The songsters bold that fly by day.Near gleaming waters wing their way.Their timid fellows shun the light—God guides them through the dusky night.But every heart holds home-love strongEnough to brave the distance long. A. E. B. 97 The Tree Swallow First of the swallow host they speed To the North, by rivers and silver shores;Lustrous green like a marshs reed, Fleecy white like the cloud that soarsOver these shimmering, flashing things That sweetly warble in ecstasy.And circle about with their powerful wings Till they seek their nests in a hollow tree. A. E. B. 98
Text Appearing After Image:
TREE SWALLOW Little birds sit on the telegraph-wires, And chitter, and flitter, and fold their wings; Maybe they think that for them and their sires Stretched always, on purpose, those wonderfulstrings: And perhaps the Thought that the world inspires Did plan for the birds, among other things. Little birds sit on the slender lines, And the news of the world runs under their feet:How value rises, and how declines. How kings with their armies in battle meet;And all the while, mid the soundless signs. They chirp their small gossipings, foolish-sweet. Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney 99 The Barn Swallow And after April, when May follows, And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows! Browning We come from the land of the South so gay.That is decked with flowers when the North is drear; We hear the alluring voice of May,As she whispers softly, Spring is here! With a flutter of joy, for the journey longOur wings we spread with a tireless flight. Beguiling the hours with a twittering song,As we ski

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