Our Trip to Birdland.

By Frances Johnson, 13 years, 933 North Twenty-fifth Avenue, Omaha. Blue side.

(This poem is based on a recent birding trip by two Busy Bees.)

I.

It was an ideal day in perfect May,
Butterflies flitted o'er flower-faces gay;
Softly shed they their fragrant breath, the sweet apple bloom—
While the dainty wild plum wafted fragrant perfumes
To a woodland nook where the two girl friends sat by a brook.
Perhaps you would have thought their expressions quite glum,
But you know not the reason for which they had come.
They were very wide awake all the same,
And to see Birdville choir was their greatest aim.

II.

Ah, what is that? Tread lightly—hark!
Is not that the song of the meadow lark?
It's he who prefers his larklings concealed
In some fragrant meadow, or in some grassy field.
Oh, see the thrasher up in that tree!
Hear him warble forth his sparkling notes of glee!
Did you, as he flew, the oriole behold,
With his shining gown of black all trimmed in richer gold
Than e'en e'er wore the pagan kings of old?

III.

There sits the blue bird, with his back of velvety blue;
Ah, who could wish to see a more brilliant hue!
Not e'en the one who has seen the Vesuvian bay, so blue;
Not e'en the one who has had of some clear Swiss lake a view.
Then there was somber cat-bird, with his medley of notes,
While in the swamps there were scores of Maryland yellowthroats.
Amid the dandelions the friends espied swarms of gold finches,
And it would be very hard to decide
Which was prettier, Mr. Wren or his plain but pretty bride.

IV.

The swallow was next on their program to see,
As he dipped through the air so swiftly and free.
Once they thought an old oak on fire,
But soon perceived 'twas cardinal in his most gorgeous attire.
This, of a sudden, was the conversation to be heard:
"Oh, look over in that cottonwood, pray, what is that bird?
Did e'er you hear such a mysterious squeak?"
"Ah, dear friend, that's the rose-breasted grosbeak!"

V.

Then they saw Mr. Woodpecker, with his conspicuous apron of white,
And his cap, all gemmed in rubles, presented a most brilliant sight.
Now my pen will stop for this time,
For fear the Busy Bees tire of such a monotonous rhyme.
But let me say, just one more thing,
That those songs in my ears re-echo and ring;
For, besides I, the other one was—don't you know who I mean?"
It was Myrtle Jensen, our former sovereign queen!"