The wooded thicket holds a drum. The air in springtime afternoons Is filled with sharp staccato notes Whose echoes clear reverberate From precipice and timbered hills. No fifer plays accompaniment; No pageant proud or marching throng Keeps step to this deep pulsing bass Whose sullen solo booms afar. A double challenge is this gage, A gauntlet flung for love or war; As strutting barnyard chanticleer Defies his neighboring lord: So calls this crested pheasant-king For combat or for peace. The meek brown mate upon her nest Feels happy and secure While thus her lord by deed and word Displays his woodland bravery And guards their little home. | |
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