Roughly speaking, the poems may be divided into two classes -- first those that, as in the Indian legend cited below, make out the mocking-bird only or chiefly a thief and thing of evil, and second those that find him, though a borrower, original and great. The former view, fortunately upheld by few, is strikingly set forth in Granald's `The Mock-bird and the Sparrow'. After describing minutely the various songs of the mocking-bird and emphasizing that they all come from other birds, the author gives the dialogue between the mock-bird and the sparrow. The former taunted the latter and insisted on his singing; and "The sparrow cock'd a knowing eye, And made him this most tart reply -- `You steal from all and call it wit, But I prefer my simple "twit".'" But the latter view is espoused by most of the writers mentioned, notably and nobly by Drake, the Haynes, the Laniers, Lee, Meek, and Thompson, the poet-laureate of the mocking-bird, whose poems should be read by every lover of nature and especially of the mocking-bird. As Thompson's tributes are all too long for quotation, I give here Meek's, in the hope that I may rescue it from the long oblivion of an out-of-print. My attention was called to it by my friend, Dr. C. H. Ross, to whom every reader will be indebted along with myself. It runs as follows: "From the vale, what music ringing, Fills the bosom of the night; On the sense, entranced, flinging Spells of witchery and delight! O'er magnolia, lime and cedar, From yon locust-top, it swells, Like the chant of serenader, Or the rhymes of silver bells! Listen! dearest, listen to it! Sweeter sounds were never heard! 'Tis the song of that wild poet -- Mime and minstrel -- Mocking-bird. "See him, swinging in his glory, On yon topmost bending limb! Carolling his amorous story, Like some wild crusader's hymn! Now it faints in tones delicious As the first low vow of love! Now it bursts in swells capricious, All the moonlit vale above! Listen! dearest, etc. "Why is't thus, this sylvan Petrarch Pours all night his serenade? 'Tis for some proud woodland Laura, His sad sonnets all are made! But he changes now his measure -- Gladness bubbling from his mouth -- Jest and gibe, and mimic pleasure -- Winged Anacreon of the South! Listen! dearest, etc. "Bird of music, wit and gladness, Troubadour of sunny climes, Disenchanter of all sadness, -- Would thine art were in my rhymes. O'er the heart that's beating by me, I would weave a spell divine; Is there aught she could deny me, Drinking in such strains as thine? Listen! dearest, etc."