File:A year with the birds (1917) (14746818321).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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hear a voice that seems to say,Now near at hand, now far away, Witchery—witchery—witchery. An incantation so serene,So innocent, befits the scene:Theres magic in that small birds note—See, there he flits—the Yellow-throat;A living sunbeam, tipped with wings,A spark of light that shines and singsWitchery—witchery—witchery. Henry van Dyhe *NOTE.—Reprinted by permission of Charles Scribners Sons. 153 *The Red-Eyed Vireo Do you hear me? Dont you knowIm the Red-eyed Vireo ?After lovely blossoming MayEntices me, the livelong day—Even when the August noonSilences the bards of June—My incessant voice is heard,Till Im called The Preacher-bird. Ive a gray head, eyebrows light,A green robe over vestments white.From roadside pulpits, forest aisles,I preach against all worldly wiles.Do you hear me? Dont you knowTo forest-temples you must go?You will love them; there the voiceOf our God bids you rejoice. Do you hear it? Will you heed it?Every human soul doth need it. A. E. B. 154
Text Appearing After Image:
RED-EYED VIREO *NOTE.—Wilson Flaggs description of the Red-eye exactly reflectsthe character of the bird and its song: The Preacher is more gen-erally known by his note, because he is incessant in his song. . . .His style of preaching is not declamation. Though constantly talking,he takes the part of a deliberative orator. . . . with a pause be-tween each sentence. You see it—you know it—do you hear me?—doyou believe it? All these strains are delivered with a rising inflectionat the close, and with a pause, as if waiting for an answer. From Chapmans Birds of Eastern North America. (Used by per-mission of D. Appleton & Co. Copyright, 1903.) 156 The Wood Pewee In old deserted orchards, A riot of neglect,In solitudes of arching woods. By streamlets which reflectLong overhanging branches With sunshine filtering through,A plaintive, tender, wistful note May flutter down to you.Perchance upon some leafless bough Near a woodland path, youll seeA tiny bird of olive brown, The gent

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