comes the voice of the gentlest and simplest of singers — the green-leaf singer — the Vireo.
The spirit bird, so frail that an unkind breath, a falling flower, might kill him, without a puissant guardian, what could he do?
But there is no fear in his voice, no broken plume in his wing; he is unwounded and fearless as he softly sings:
“Hear — hear me.
Hear — hear me.”
A song of the bluest sky he sings, of the greenest leaf, of the freshest airs and the rippling lake; a song of the sweetest days, for now is the calm summer weather abroad — aglow on the Chaska-water.