THE THRUSH’S SOLO.
There’s a robin’s invitation
And a bluebird’s message sweet,
Bidding us to Forest City
With its crooked moss-grown street;
Feathered folks and folks in ermine
Own the city with its trees,
Own the brooks and own the berries,
Own the dewdrops and the breeze.
There, to-day, there was a concert
In a snowy elder bush,
Opened with a thrilling solo
By a prima-donna thrush.
When the sweet brown-breasted singer
Hushed the wonder of her song,
From her listeners rose an encore
Echoing the hills along;
Tambourines the brooks were shaking,
Clapped the palms on every oak
And from old and trained musicians
Warbled rounds of music broke.
Winds that held their breath to listen
Swept adown the vine-clad rooms,
Crowned the little prima-donna
With soft-shaken elder blooms.
—Mrs. A. S. Hardy.