The wood thrush is singing from the depth of the glen,
His clear, bell-like music, so pleasing to me
In the fair month of May, when all nature looks gay;
They vie with each other from briar and tree.
In a deep shaded nook, where the woodbine twine,
And the dark gloomy forest conceals them from view;
By a clear, winding brooklet, o'er tangled with vines.
His dear mate is guarding her treasures of blue.
Though dark be the weather and gloomy the morn,
And all other birds in the forest are still,
And the sad face of Nature, all dreary, forlorn,
His clear, mellow notes through the dripping woods thrill.
In the evening, when nature is seeking repose,
And his dear little mate has repaired to her nest,
And the last golden sunbeams are kissing the rose,
It is then that his song is the sweetest and best.
Oh, then man why repine, be downcast on your way.
As through the long years you are journeying on;
For the sadder the morning and gloomier the day,
The happier and sweeter is the wood thrushe's song.
For The Hawkeye O. and O.
CANADIAN FLYCATCHERS.