It drowned the distant noise of motor-'buses,

It drowned the shunting trains, the traffic's roar,

The milk, the bread, the meat, the tradesmen's fusses,

And the long secret tale told o'er and o'er

That all day long Eliza Jane discusses

With the new girl next door.

So sweetly the bird sang. Great thrills went through it.

It seemed to say, "The glorious sun hath shone,

Flooding the world like treacle wrapped round suet;

Why should we harp of age and dull years gone?"

Time seemed to be no sort of object to it—

It just went on and on.

Therefore I rose, and later (o'er the trifle),

When Araminta with her tactful gush

Asked if the garden seemed to help or stifle

The Muses' output, I responded, "Tush;

When you go out, my dear, please buy a rifle;

I want to shoot that thrush."

Evoe.