Chapter 13
section thirteen of birds and nature vol nine number one january nineteen o one recorded for librivox dot org by phil schemph a bird calendar by the poets january this is not the month of singing birds silently overhead the hen-hawk sails with watchful measuring eye and for his quarry waits lowell february sometimes a flock of strange birds descends upon us from the north the crossbills there is an old tradition that the red upon their breast was caused by the blood of our saviour as they sought to free him with their bills from the cross and that bird is called the crossbill covered all with blood so dear in the groves of pine it singeth songs like legends strange to hear longfellow march no birds are more closely associated with early spring than the swallows gallant and gay in their doublets gray all that a flash like the darting of flame chattering arabic african indian certain of springtime the swallows came doublets of gray silk and surcoats of purple ruffs of russet round each little throat wearing such garb they had crossed the waters mariners sailing with never a boat
sir edwin arnold april winged lute that we call a bluebird you blend in a silver strain the sound of the laughing waters the sound of spring's sweet rain the voice of the wind the sunshine and fragrance of blossoming things ah you are a poem of april that god endowed with wings may this is the month of the bobolinks merrily merrily there they hie now they rise and now they fly they cross and turn and in and out and down the middle and wheel about with few shoo waddle lincoln listen to me boba lincoln happy's the wooing that's speedily doing that's merry and over with bloom of the clover boba lincoln waddle lincoln winter sea bee follow me june then sings the robin who wears a sunset memory on his breast pouring his vesper hymns and prayers to the red shrine of the west july the full tide of song is on the ebb but you still hear in the shadowy woods the silvery notes of
the wise thrush who sings his song twice over lest you should think he never could recapture that first fine careless rapture browning august the hummingbird when the mild gold stars flower out as the summer gloaming goes a dim shape quivers about some sweet rich heart of a rose then you by thoughts of it stirred still dreamily question them is it a gem half bird or is it a bird half gem edward fosset september there is something wistful in the notes of the birds preparing to depart in the woods we see a little bird in suit of sombre olive soft and brown with greenish gold its vest is fringed its tiny cap is ebon-tinged with ivory pale its wings are barred and its dark eyes are tender-starred dear bird i said what is thy name and thrice the mournful answer came so faint and far and yet so near Pee-wee, Pee-wee, Pee-wee, Trowbridge.
October. This brown month surely belongs to the sparrows. Close beside my garden gate hops the sparrow, light, sedate. There he seems to peek and peer, and to twitter, too, and tilt the bare branches in between with a fond familiar mean.
Lathrop. November. In cold weather the little grey chickadee cheers us with his tiny voice. Gay and polite a cheerful cry. Chick-chickadee-dee.
Saucy note. Out of a sound heart and merry throat. This scrap of valour just for play fronts the north wind with waistcoat grey. Emerson December
The sleep of the earth has begun under the white thick snow. The owl is abroad by night. A flitting shape of fluffy down In the shadow of the woods To wit, to woo, I wish I knew
Tell me the riddle, I beg Whether the egg was before the owl Or the owl before the egg Arranged by Ella F. Mosby End of section 13
This recording is in the public domain
