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Line 206. Did you ever observe the spiral flight of the nighthawk ?

Line 225. In what sense are the wheat fields his?




Today, the 7th of September, I made a discovery. The pair of redbirds' that built in my cedar trees last winter got duly away with the brood. Several times during summer rambles I cast my eye about, but they 245 were not to be seen. Early this afternoon I struck out across the country towards a sink hole in a field two miles away.

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Within the fence everything is an impenetrable thicket of weeds and vines — blackberry, thistle, 250 ironweed, pokeweed, elder, goldenrod. As I drew near, I saw two or three birds dive down, with the shy way they have at this season; and when I came to the edge, everything was quiet. But I threw a stone at a point where the tangle was deep, and there 255 was a great fluttering and scattering of the pretenders. And then occurred more than I had looked for.

1 The cardinal grosbeak, a beautiful but shy song bird, the :: Kentucky cardinal,” which gives the title to the book from which these selections were taken.

The stone had hardly struck the brush when what

looked like a tongue of vermilion flame leaped forth 260 near by, and, darting across, struck itself out of

sight in the green vines on the opposite slope. A male and a female cardinal flew up also, balancing themselves on sprays of the blackberry, and utter

ing excitedly their quick call notes. I whistled to the 265 male as I had been used, and he recognized me by

shooting up his crest, and hopping to nearer twigs with louder inquiry. All at once, as if an idea had urged him, he sprang across to the spot where the first

frightened male had disappeared. I could still hear 270 him under the vines, and presently he reappeared

and flew up into a locust tree on the farther edge of the basin, followed by the other. What had taken place or took place then I do not know; but I wished

he might be saying: “My son, that man over there 275 is the one who was very good to your mother and me

last winter, and who owns the tree you were born in. I have warned you, of course, never to trust Man; but I would advise you, when

you have found

your sweetheart, to give him' a trial, and take her to his 280 cedar trees."

From A Kentucky Cardinal, JAMES LANE ALLEN.

Which of the “Months” as described by Mr. Allen do you like best? Why? Which month of the year is your favorite?

1 Him, this particular man.



Of all the poets of England, with the possible exception of his friend Keats, Shelley is the most spirituelle as distinguished from spiritual. His imagination

was extremely vivid and broad. He was particularly gifted in discerning the higher meanings of nature. All the world was full of delicate

suggestions to Shelley. He lived but thirty years, and in that time wrote immortal verse.

His life was somewhat irregular, but this apparently was the ebullition of a youth of genius. If he had lived to mature years, it would have passed away.




The Cloud is telling the tale of its wonderful career.
Follow it closely.
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,

From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid

In their noonday dreams. 5 From my wings are shaken the dews that waken

The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,

As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under,
And then again I dissolve it in rain,

And laugh as I pass in thunder.
I sift the snow on the mountains below,

And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white,

While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers,

Lightning my pilot sits,
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,

It struggles and howls at fits;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,

This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii' that move
1 Genii, mythical beings supposed to control many natural





In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,

Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,

The Spirit he loves remains;
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile,

Whilst he is dissolving in rains.





The sanguine 1 sunrise, with his meteor eyes,

And his burning plumes outspread, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,?

When the morning star shines dead, As on the jag of a mountain crag,

Which an earthquake rocks and swings. An eagle lit one moment may sit

In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea be

Its ardors of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depths of heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest,

As still as a brooding dove.



That orbed maiden with white fire laden,

Whom mortals call the moon, ,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,

By the midnight breezes strewn;

1 Sanguine, bloody, red.

2 Rack, cloud substance.

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