men upon the soft prairie, and they did not at once reveal
themselves, but stood a little way back listening to her.
She had ceased her song, and was gazing beyond intently.
On the naked limb of a desolate, thunder-riven tree that
stood apart from its lush, green-boughed neighbours, sat
a lonely thrush in seeming melancholy. Every few seconds
he would utter a note of song. Sometimes it was low and
sorrowful, then it was louder, with the same sad quality
in it, as if the lonely bird were calling for some
responsive voice from far away over the prairie.

"Dear bird, you have lost your mate, and are crying out
for her," the girl said, stretching out her little brown
hand compassionately toward the low-crouching songster.
"Your companions have gone to the South, and you wait
here trusting that your mate will come back, and not
journey to summer lands without you. Is not that so, my
poor bird? Ah, would that I could go with you where there
are always flowers, and ever can be heard the ripple of
little brooks. Here the leaves will soon fall, ah, me!
and the daisies wither, and instead of the delight of
summer we shall have only the cry of hungry wolves, and
the bellowing of bitter winds above the ghastly plains.
But could I go to the South, there is no one who would
sing over my absence one lamenting note, as you sing, my
bird, for the mate with whom you had so many hours of
sweet lovemaking in these prairie thickets. Nobody loves
me woos me, cares for me, or sings about me. I am not
even as the wild rose here, though it seems to be alone
and is forbidden to take its walk: for it holds up its