September.
There is something wistful in the notes of the birds preparing to depart. In the woods we see—
“A little bird in suit
Of sombre olive, soft and brown,
With greenish gold its vest is fringed,
Its tiny cap is ebon-tinged,
With ivory pale its wings are barred,
And its dark eyes are tender starred.
‘Dear bird,’ I said, ‘what is thy name?’
And thrice the mournful answer came,