to any except the lowest orders
of animal life.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 46: By Richard A. Proctor, a noted English astronomer
(1837-1888).]

THE COMING OF THE BIRDS[47]

I know the trusty almanac
Of the punctual coming-back,
On their due days, of the birds.
I marked them yestermorn,
A flock of finches darting
Beneath the crystal arch,
Piping, as they flew, a march,--
Belike the one they used in parting
Last year from yon oak or larch;
Dusky sparrows in a crowd,
Diving, darting northward free,
Suddenly betook them all,
Every one to his hole in the wall,
Or to his niche in the apple tree.

I greet with joy the choral trains
Fresh from palms and Cuba's canes.
Best gems of Nature's cabinet,
With dews of tropic morning wet,
Beloved of children, bards and Spring,
O birds, your perfect virtues bring,
Your song, your forms, your rhythmic flight,
Your manners for the heart's delight;
Nestle in hedge, or barn, or roof,
Here weave your chamber weather-proof,
Forgive our harms, and condescend
To man, as to a lubber friend,
And, generous, teach his awkward race
Courage and probity and grace!

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 47: By Ralph Waldo Emerson, an American poet and philosopher
(1803-1882).]

THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS[48]

The coming and going of the birds is more or less a mystery and a
surprise. We go out in the morning, and no thrush or finch is to be
heard; we go out again, and every tree and grove is musical; yet again,
and all is silent. Who saw them come? Who saw them depart?

This pert little winter wren, for instance, darting in and out the
fence, diving under the rubbish here and coming up yards away,--how does
he manage with those little circular wings to compass degrees and zones,
and arrive always in the nick of time? Last August I saw him in the
remotest wilds of the Adirondacks, impatient and inquisitive as usual; a
few weeks later, on the Potomac, I was greeted by the same hardy little
busybody. Does he travel by easy stages from bush to bush and from wood
to wood? or has that compact little body force and courage to brave the
night and the upper air, and so achieve leagues at one pull?

And yonder bluebird, with the earth tinge on his breast and the sky
tinge on his back,--did he come down out of heaven on that bright March
morning when he told us so softly and plaintively that spring had come?
Ind