"Small notes wake from underground Where now his tiny bones are laid. No prowling cat with whiskered face Approaches this sequestered place; No school-boy with his willow bow Shall aim at thee a treacherous blow." But the funeral of even a robin is a sad event; so we will bring him back in the spring, for "There's a call upon the housetop, an answer from the plain, There's a warble in the sunshine, a twitter in the rain." CHAPTER II THE MOCKING-BIRD Wit, sophist, songster, Yorick of thy tribe, Thou sportive satirist of nature's school; To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe, Arch-mocker, and Mad Abbot of Misrule. For such thou art by day; but all night long Thou pour'st soft, sweet, pensive, solemn strain, As if thou didst in this thy moonlight song Like to the melancholy Jaques complain, Musing on falsehood, folly, vice, and wrong. And sighing for thy motley coat again. Wilde. In his native town, or district, the mocker stands at the head of the class as a song-bird. He is not distinguished for his gorgeous plumage, like a parrot, nor yet for the mischief he does, like the crow. His virtue is all in his throat. And yet he can scarcely be honored as an original genius. Were he original he would be no mocker. But he has an original way with him for all that, when he takes a notion to mimic any person. Were he a man as gifted, we should have no trouble in seeing ourselves "as ithers see us"; or better, in hearing ourselves "as ithers hear us." He is the preacher, the choir leader, the choir itself, the organ. He gives out the hymns, chants the "Amen," and pronounces the benediction in the garden church. Few verses have been inscribed to the mocking-bird, for the reason, it is supposed, that sentiment intended for any known singer fits the mocker, though it must be conceded that he is humorist more than poet. It is impossible to listen to his varied songs and keep from laughing, especially if the mood be on one. Where the weather is very mild he sings all winter, and nearly all the year. His fall molt takes but a few weeks, and then "Richard is himself again." His humor does not desert him even at the trying season of molting his coat, for he is seen to stand on a bough and preen himself of his old tatters, catching a falling feather in his beak, and turning it about in a ludicrous way, as if laughing to himself at this annual joke of his. Dropping the remnant of his summer plumage, he cants his wise little head and gives a shrill cry of applause as it floats away.