File:A year with the birds (1917) (14563523557).jpg

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

View Book Page: Book Viewer
About This Book: Catalog Entry
View All Images: All Images From Book
Click here to view book online to see this illustration in context in a browseable online version of this book.

Text Appearing Before Image:
gs would give their royaltyTo have one day of his felicity! Maurice Thompson 82 The Red-headed WoodpeckerThe Field Sparrow 83 The Legend of the First Woodpecker Once on a time, down to the earth, The wise Great Spirit came;Disguised as an aged man, he sought A wigwams leaping flame.I am faint; pray give me food, he begged; And the Indian squaw replied,Ill bake you a cake of my golden meal. I will wait, the Spirit sighed. When the cake was done, it had grown in size; It is far too big, thought she.Aloud she said, If you longer wait, I will make one presently.When the second was baked, it, too, had grown— A monstrous cake it looked; Tis more than enough for a feast, she thought; She said, It is not well-cooked. The third, the smallest of all, became By the Spirits magic spell.So great that she laid it away with the rest, And cried, I know full wellYou deserve no food. Begone, I say! In the bark of the forest treesYou can find enough for such as you! Then she dropped upon her knees. 84
Text Appearing After Image:
For the Spirit arose, aflame with wrath, And he spake to her angrily.Thou art selfish and mean, and quite unfit, An Indian woman to be.Go out to the trees and search for your food ! She felt herself grow small;Wings grew from her sides, and away she flew, With a woodpeckers noisy call.Quirk! Quir-r-k!For my food I must work! A. E. B. 85 The Field Sparrow You are only a voice of the fields, sweet sprite,Where we watch for your bright brown head, For the golden flush oer your breast of white.And your bill of softest red. When we venture near, you slip away. And hide within the brush.Where joyously you sing all day. And at evenings solemn hush. The summer may wane—elusivelyYou may have escaped our view.But your tender voice, alluringly.Has drawn our hearts to you. Chee-wee, chee-wee, chee-wee!Dee-dee-dee, de-de-de-de-dee! A. E. B. 3ft .,sv i^i

Note About Images