“The voice of the wind, the sunshine And fragrance of blossoming things. Ah, you are a poem of April That God endowed with wings.” May. This is the month of the Bobolinks. “Merrily, merrily, there they hie; Now they rise and now they fly; They cross and turn and in and out, And down the middle and wheel about, With ‘Phew, shew, Wadolincoln; listen to me Bobolincoln!’ Happy’s the wooing that’s speedily doing, That’s merry and over with bloom of the clover, Bobolincoln, Wadolincoln, Winterseebee, follow me.” June. “Then sings the Robin, he who wears A sunset memory on his breast, Pouring his vesper hymns and prayers To the red shrine of the West.” July. The full tide of song is on the ebb, but you still hear in the shadowy woods the silvery notes of— “The wise Thrush, who sings his song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture That first fine careless rapture.” —Browning. August. The humming-bird. “When the mild gold stars flower out, As the summer gloaming goes, A dim shape quivers about Some sweet rich heart of a rose. “Then you, by thoughts of it stirred, Still dreamily question them, ‘Is it a gem, half bird, Or is it a bird, half gem?’” —Edgar Fawcett. 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, So faint and far and yet so near— ‘Pewee! Pewee! Pewee!’” —Trowbridge. October. This brown month surely belongs to the sparrows. “Close beside my garden gate Hops the sparrow, light, sedate.” * * * “There he seems to peek and peer, And to twitter, too, and tilt The bare branches in between With a fond, familiar mien.” —Lathrop. November. In cold weather the little gray Chickadee cheers us with his “tiny voice”— “Gay and polite, a cheerful cry, Chick-chickadedee! Saucy note, Out of sound heart and merry throat! This scrap of valor, just for play, Fronts the north wind with waistcoat gray.” —Emerson. December. The sleep of the earth has begun under the white, thick snow. The Owl is abroad by night—