That all your hard toils will seem truly a pleasure.

He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree,
The red flowering peach, and the apple's sweet blossoms;
He snaps up destroyers, wherever they be,
And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms;
He drags the vile grub from the corn it devours,
The worms from the webs where they riot and welter;
His song and his services freely are ours,
And all that he asks is, in summer a shelter.

The ploughman is pleased when he gleams in his train,
Now searching the furrows, now mounting to cheer him;
The gard'ner delights in his sweet simple strain,
And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him.
The slow lingering school-boys forget they'll be chid,
While gazing intent, as he warbles before them,
In mantle of sky-blue, and bosom so red,
That each little loiterer seems to adore him.

The happiest bird of our spring, however, and one that rivals the
European lark, in my estimation, is the Boblincon, or Boblink, as he is
commonly called. He arrives at that choice portion of our year, which,
in this latitude, answers to the description of the month of May, so
often given by the poets. With us, it begins about the middle of May,
and lasts until nearly the middle of June. Earlier than this, winter is
apt to return on its traces, and to blight the opening beauties of
the year; and later than this, begin the parching, and panting, and
dissolving heats of summer. But in this genial interval, nature is in
all her freshness and fragrance: "the rains are over and gone, the