LITTLE BOY BLUE.
Boys and girls, don’t you think that is a pretty name? I came from the warm south, where I went last winter, to tell you that Springtime is nearly here.
When I sing, the buds and flowers and grass all begin to whisper to one another, “Springtime is coming for we heard the Bluebird say so,” and then they peep out to see the warm sunshine. I perch beside them and tell them of my long journey from the south and how I knew just when to tell them to come out of their warm winter cradles. I am of the same blue color as the violet that shows her pretty face when I sing, “Summer is coming, and Springtime is here.”
I do not like the cities for they are black and noisy and full of those troublesome birds called English Sparrows. I take my pretty mate and out in the beautiful country we find a home. We build a nest of twigs, grass and hair, in a box that the farmer puts up for us near his barn.
Sometimes we build in a hole in some old tree and soon there are tiny eggs in the nest. I sing to my mate and to the good people who own the barn. I heard the farmer say one day, “Isn’t it nice to hear the Bluebird sing? He must be very happy.” And I am, too, for by this time there are four or five little ones in the nest.
Little Bluebirds are like little boys—they are always hungry. We work hard to find enough for them to eat. We feed them nice fat worms and bugs, and when their little wings are strong enough, we teach them how to fly. Soon they are large enough to hunt their own food, and can take care of themselves.
The summer passes, and when we feel the breath of winter we go south again, for we do not like the cold.
THE BLUE BIRD.
I know the song that the Bluebird is singingOut in the apple tree, where he is swinging.Brave little fellow! the skies may be dreary,Nothing cares he while his heart is so cheery.Hark! how the music leaps out from his throat,Hark! was there ever so merry a note?
Listen a while, and you’ll hear what he’s saying,Up in the apple tree swinging and swaying.“Dear little blossoms down under the snow,You must be weary of winter, I know;Hark! while I sing you a message of cheer,Summer is coming, and springtime is here!”
“Dear little snow-drop! I pray you arise;Bright yellow crocus! come open your eyes;Sweet little violets, hid from the cold,Put on our mantles of purple and gold;Daffodils! daffodils! say, do you hear,Summer is coming! and springtime is here!”
THE BLUE BIRD.
Winged lute that we call a blue bird,You blend in a silver strainThe sound of the laughing waters,The patter of spring’s sweet rain,The voice of the wind, the sunshine,And fragrance of blossoming things,Ah! you are a poem of AprilThat God endowed with wings.E. E. R.
IKE a bit of sky this little harbinger of spring appears, as we see him and his mate househunting in early March. Oftentimes he makes his appearance as early as the middle of February, when his attractive note is heard long before he himself is seen....