File:A year with the birds (1917) (14769844743).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

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Text Appearing Before Image:
hardly a daisy. Here again, here, here, here, happy year! 0 warble unchidden, unbidden!Summer is coming, is coming, my dear. And all the winters are hidden. Tennyson And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!He, too, is no mean preacher:Come forth into the light of things.Let Nature be your Teacher. Wordsworth 121 The Catbird Gay and restless are the catbirds, Moving tails incessantly;Spreading them like vainest peacocks, Preening feathers jauntily. Now they crouch like Maltese kittens—Just two soft gray fluffy balls; Next they lengthen their lithe bodies,Flapping wings, with catlike calls. Loving, tender, anxious MotherGuards her rough scrap-basket nest; Kindly, busy, helpful FatherFeeds young orphaned birds distressed. He defends the nests of others.Likes to build his own near Man; Knows hes earned his share of cherries.Helps himself wheneer he can. Intelligent, a clever mimic, Lovable and friendly bird;When he sings, more skilled performer In our North is rarely heard. A. E. B. 122
Text Appearing After Image:
The Catbird He sits on a branch of yon blossoming brushThis madcap cousin of robin and thrush,And sings without ceasing the whole morning long;Now wild, now tender, the wayward songThat flows from his soft, gray, fluttering throat;But often he stops in his sweetest note.And, shaking a flower from the blossoming bough,Drawls out, Mi-eu, mi-ow! Dear merry mocker, your mimic artMakes drowsy Grimalkin awake with a start.And peer all around with a puzzled air,—For who would suppose that one would dareTo mimic the voice of a mortal foe!Youre safe on the bough, as well you know;And if ever a bird could laugh, tis you.Drawling, Mi-ow, mi-eu! Edith M. Thomas 123 The Mockingbird A singer, one hour, with yearning heart, Who knows all the nicer ways of his art, With a soul so full of poesy That we listen to him in ecstasy. But hark! what is that? Distinctly we hear The pop of a cork, a whistle clear, A call to a dog, a whip-poor-wills cry, A phcebes hoarse note. Against the blue sky. The same g

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