[Illustration]

                           The Hermit Thrush

                                   BY

                          F· SCHUYLER MATHEWS

                             L·PRANG·&·C^o:
                                Boston:




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[Illustration:

  THE HERMIT THRUSH
]




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[Illustration]

           The sweet fresh air of the new springtime
           Breathes o’er the woods where the blue hills climb
           Aloft from a belt of spruce and pine
           That hides their feet in a dark green line.
           On the edge of the wood where the white birch trees

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[Illustration:

  WHERE THE BLUE HILLS CLIMB
  ALOFT FROM A BELT OF SPRUCE AND PINE
]

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[Illustration]

               Nod and bend in the passing breeze,
               A hermit lives who never is seen
               Nearer the meadow’s rolling green
               Than the pasture bars beside the hill,
               Where the road is lonely, dark, and still,
               And scarcely anyone passes by
               But the boy and cows, and squirrels shy.
               This hermit is brown, and small in size,
               And hides away from curious eyes;
               He wears no cowl and studies no book,


[Illustration:

  THE PASTURE BARS
  BESIDE THE HILL
]


[Illustration]

                Nor sits in a cave or sheltered nook;
                But up in the top of the tallest tree
                At the edge of the wood, alone sits he,
                And sings his song in a wild sweet way,
                Of the distant world so blithe and gay;
                How he retired from its youthful folly—
                And here there’s a touch of melancholy
                In cadence soft; and the song’s complete,
                With such a wealth of melody sweet
                As never the organ’s pipe could blow,

[Illustration]

                Or ever musician could think or know.
                Sometimes he sits in the gloaming still,
                On the leaning birch beside the mill
                And the old mill’s shaky, clumsy wheel,
                Worn out with the work of grinding meal,
                Frets and fusses and sputters away,
                And beats the water to foam and spray;
                Its broken buckets dipping along
                In ill marked time to the thrush’s song.
                Never was music softer nor tune

[Illustration:

  SOMETIMES HE SITS IN THE GLOAMING STILL
  ON THE LEANING BIRCH BESIDE THE MILL:
]

[Illustration]

            Sweeter than his in the afternoon
            When the lowering sun shines slanting across
            The rugged old pines, and the rocks, and moss.
            Should you wish to hear this hermit thrush sing,
            And his song in the woods and welkin ring,
            Then come where the blue notch mountains rise
            Far up in the north and pierce the skies;
            Where Kinsman’s dome stands full and round,
            And Lafayette’s pyramid peak is found;
            Where Pemigewasset’s silvery stream

[Illustration:

  THE LOWERING SUN
  SHINES SLANTING ACROSS
]

[Illustration]

             Winds through the valley with glint and gleam;
             There you will hear the heaven-born note
             Swell from the thrush’s slender throat,
             And listening nature will breathless lie,
             To hear the sweetest song of the sky!

[Illustration:

  COME GENTLE SPRING
]


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