There’s wild azalea on the hill, and roses down the dell, And just a spray of lilac still a-bloom beside the well; The columbine adorns the rocks, the laurel buds grow pink, Along the stream white arums gleam, and violets bend to drink. This is the song of the Yellowthroat, Fluttering gayly beside you; Hear how each voluble note Offers to guide you: _Which way, sir?_ _I say, sir,_ _Let me teach you,_ _I beseech you!_ _Are you wishing_ _Jolly fishing?_ _This way, sir!_ _Let me teach you._ Oh come, forget your foes and fears, and leave your cares behind, And wander forth to try your luck, with cheerful, quiet mind; For be your fortune great or small, you’ll take what God may give, And all the day your heart will say, “’Tis luck enough to live.” This is the song the Brown Thrush flings Out of his thicket of roses; Hark how it warbles and rings, Mark how it closes: _Luck, luck,_ _What luck?_ _Good enough for me!_ _I’m alive, you see._ _Sun shining, no repining;_ _Never borrow idle sorrow;_ _Drop it! Cover it up!_ _Hold your cup!_ _Joy will fill it,_ _Don’t spill it!_ _Steady, be ready,_ _Love your luck!_ —Henry van Dyke, in _Bird-Lore_. “I do declare!” exclaimed Tommy Todd’s grandfather, speaking out loud, much to the boy’s embarrassment. “I reckon I’ll get out a pole and go a-trout-fishing to-morrow dawn. I haven’t thought of a yallerthroat, not since I used to go casting in the brook that ran through Ogden’s meadows among the bush willows, and them birds kept hollerin’ on ahead.” This is what the Wise Man told the children, standing in front of Miss Wilde’s desk and speaking as if he knew them all by name. THE BIRDS AND I The springtime belongs to the birds and me. We own it. We know when the May-flowers and the buttercups bloom. We know when the first frogs peep. We watch the awakening of the woods. We are wet by the warm April showers. We go where we will, and we are companions. Every tree and brook and blade of grass is ours; and our hearts are full of song.