New-York tribune., 1922-07-16

Who ever heard such gable of thieves'
talk?
1t seems they delight in unmasking my
poor pretense
Yes, now see that the hydrangea
blooms are rusty;
That the hearts of the golden glow ara
49, ripening to lusterless seeds;
That the garden is dahlia-colored,
Flaming with its last over-hot hues:
Ihat the sun is pale as lemon too
small to fill the picking-ring.
I did not see this yesterday.
But to-day the grackles have come.
They drop out of the trees
And strut in companies over the lawn.
Tired of flying, no doubt;
A grand parade to timber legs and give
wings a rest.
l should build a great fish-o,nd for
them,
Since it is evident that a bird-bath.
meant to accommodate two gold
finches at most,
Is slight hospitality for these hordes.
Scarcely one can get in,
They all peck and scrabble so,
Crowding, pushing, chasing one an
other up the bank with spread
wings.
"Are we ducks, you, owner of such an
adequate comforts,
That you offer US lily-tanks where ore
must swim or drown,
Not stand and splash like a gentleman ?" /,
l feel the reproach keenIy, seeing them
perch On the edges of the tanks,
trying the depth with chary foot,
And hardly able to get their wings un-
der water in the bird-bath.
But there are resources ! had not con-
sidered,
If am bravely ruled out of count.
What is that thudding against the caves
just beyond my window?
What is that spray Of water blowing
past my face?
Two-three-grackles bathing in the
gutter,
The gutter providentially choked with
leaves.
l pray they think put the leaves there
on purpose;
would be supposed thoughtful and wel-
coming
To all guests, even thieves
But considering that they are going
South and I am not,
l wish they would bathe more quietly,
,, 1t is unmannerly to faunt ones good
fortune.
They rate me of no consequence,
But they might reflect that it is my
| gutter.
I know their opinion Of me,
Because one is drying himself on the
window-silI
Not two feet from my hand.
His purple neck is sleek with water,
And the fellow preens his feathers for
all the world as if I were foun-
tain statue.
If it were not for the window,
am convinced he would light on my
head.
Tyrian-feathered freebooter,
Appropriating my delightful gutter with
! SO extravagant an, ease,
You are as cool pirate as ever scuttled
a ship,
And are you not scuttling my summer
with every peck of your sharpbill!
But there is q cloud over the beech-tree.
A quenching cloud for lemon-Iivered
| suns.
The grackles are all swinging in the
tree-tops,
And the wind is coming up, mind you.
That boom and reach is no summer gale,
know that wind,
1t blows the Equinox over seeds and
| scatters them,
1t rips petals from petals, and tears off
half-turned leaves.
| There is rain on the back of that wind.
Now / would keep the grackIes,
/ would plead with them not to leave me.
grant their coming, but would not
| have them 90.
1t is a milestone, this passing Of
grackles.
A day of them, and 1t is year gone by.
There is magic in this, and terror,
Eut / only. stare stupidity out of the
window.
The grackles have come.
Come! Yes, they surely came.
But they have gone.
A moment ago the oak was full Of them,
They are not there now.
Not speck Of q black wing,
Not an eye-peep Of a purple head.
The grAckles have gone,
And watch an Autuma storm
Stripping the garden.
Shouting black rain challenges
To an old. limp summer
Laid down to die in the flower beds.
/ AMY LOWELL.
4