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to some of their feathered or fragrant friends of the field. The partridge is a special favorite, as the following stanzas would indicate :

“Thy nest is enamelled with flowers,

With vasilico, narcissus, and water-lily;
Thy place is full of dew,

Thou delightest in the fragrant odor.
Ah! pretty, pretty,

Ah! dear little partridge!

When the little partridge descends from the tree,

And with his sweet voice chirps,
He cheers all the world,
He draws the heart from the sea of blood.

Ah! pretty, pretty,
Ah! dear little partridge !

All the birds call thee blessed,

They come with thee in flocks,
They come around thee chirping;
In truth there is not one like thee.

Ah! pretty, pretty,
Ah! beautiful little partridge!

The crane is the harbinger of summer as the stork is of spring, and has received his share of poetic tribute.

To the Armenian, under foreign skies, the flight of the crane is alway suggestive of home.

His thoughts will be such as to recall the poets of his Oriental fatherland. “Crane, whence comest thou? Hast thou no news of our country?”

Thanks to the modern scientific research, news flies faster than the crane, and the Armenian in America is abreast with the times on the Armenian question and has the news before the Armenian residents on the foot-hills of Ararat can possibly get it.

The tender regard of Armenians for the birds of the air has its origin in the ancient superstition of transmigration. Among the ignorant, it is still believed that the spirits of the departed in the form of birds visit the scenes of their

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youth. For this reason the denizens of the air are seldom disturbed by the Armenian peasants. Many of the most touching poetical illusions in regard to them, are born of the idea that they are custodians of the the spirits of departed friends.

The limpid, laughing waters of Armenia's swift descending streams as they babble through rocky channels, or bound from shelving precipice in a musical cascade, have shared the laureat's fancy with the star reflecting blue of the crystal lakes. A hearty expression of the poetic charms of a mountain torrent, watering fields and gardens in the lower valley, is the following:

“Down from yon distant mountain

The water flows through the village, Ha!
A dark boy comes forth,

And washes his hands and face,
Washing, ves washing,

And turning to the water, asked, Ha!
Water, from what mountain dost thou come?

O my cool and sweet water! Ha!
I come from that mountain,

Where the old and new snow lie one on the other.

“Water, to what garden dost thou go ?

O my cool and sweet water! Ha!
I go into that garden

Where there is the sweet song of the nightingale! Ha!
Water, into what fountain dost thou go?

O my cool and sweet little water!
I go to that sountain

Where thy love comes and drinks.
I go to meet her and kiss her lips,

And satiate myself with her love."

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To dramatic poetry the Armenian singer frequently turns. Many examples of this branch of the art connected with the famous Lake Van, around which countless traditions are woven. An excellent example of this class of poetry is given below:

“We sailed in the ship from Aghthamar.
We directed our ship towards Avan;
When we arrived before Vosdan
We saw the dark sun of the dark day.

Dull clouds covered the sky,
Obscuring at once stars and moon;
The winds blew fiercely,
And took from my eyes land and home.

Thundered the heaven, thundered the earth,
The waters of the blue sea arose;
On every side the heavens shot forth fire;
Black terror invaded my heart.

There is the sky, but the earth is not seen,
There is the earth, but the sun is not seen ·
The waves come like mountains
And open before me a deep abyss.

O see, if thou lovest thy God,
Have pity on me, forlorn and wretched;
Take not from me my sweet sun,
And betray me not to flinty-hearted Death.

Pity, O sea, o terrible sea!
Give me not up to the cold winds:
My tears implore thee
And the thousand sorrows of my heart

The savage sea has no pity!
It hears not the plaintive voice of my broken heart;.
The blood freezes in my veins,
Black night descends upon my eyes

Go tell to my mother
To sit and weep for her darkened son;
That John was the prey of the sea,
The sun of the young man is set!

Summer! The short, sweet, seductive summer of Armenia does not last long enough to produce ennui.

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This brief, bright pageantry of blooming, fragrant flowers and ripening fruit, comes quickly, does its work in

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