And Golden-wing thought if he only might live
On that wind-blown, swaying bough,

He would give up his lilies and honey and dew,
And be happier, far, than now.

So he fluttered his dainty, golden wings
And sprang on a passing breeze,
And floated up with a swelling heart,

To the home of the birds in the trees.

The journey was long, he grew weary and faint,
The most of his strength was spent ;

But still he pressed up to the nest in the trees,
Urged on by his discontent.

He reached it at last, the pretty, cool nest,

Where the young birds were learning to sing; But he was not there long, for a greedy young bird Caught sight of poor Golden-wing.

The birds all came rushing in hot pursuit,
And Golden-wing, faint with fear,
Wished in his trembling, foolish heart,

That the garden were only near.

And at length, when he reached it, the garden fair,

And hid in his lily home,

He vowed to be more contented henceforth,

And never again to roam.

And he learned the lesson we all must heed,

Whether or not we please,

That those who are made for the lily bells,

Can never find homes in the trees.

-Selected.

A

THE GRASSHOPPER.

GRASSHOPPER sat in an oak tree green,
Mending the shoes of the fairy queen,
For he was a cobbler of all the fays,

Yellows and purples and greens and grays;
A happy old fellow and merry was he
As he sat on the limb of the old oak tree;
Oh, merry and bold and ever so old,

As I heard one day when this story was told!

A bobolink skirmishing over the way,
Called to the grasshopper, "Sir, good-day!"
And the grasshopper cobbling still at his shoe,
Answered politely, "The same to you!"
And nodded his head with a little bow,
Though I couldn't exactly tell you how;

For the prince of good manners-the grasshopper-he,
As he cobbled away in his old oak tree!

"How much do you make by the day and the week?"
The bobolink asked with a flirt and a shriek;
"Three golden leaves of the buttercup's flower —
Three crystal drops from the latest shower;
Three sacks of meal from the pollen's best
That the elves shake off from the cowslip's breast;
And that doth keep me both well and good
For I'm the boss cobbler of all the wood!"

A barefoot boy, as he came along,

Had loitered to list to the bobolink's song,
And shy a stone, as well as he could,
At the little boss cobbler of all the wood;

"You cobble a shoe!" he cried as he laughed,

"You're the funniest cobbler of all your craft;

Why, your leather's a leaf, and your paste- it is dew! Oh, what a cobbler to cobble a shoe!"

But the bobolink answered with honest wrath,
As he peered at the boy in the woodland path,
"Each one is wisest and skillfulest, too,

That knows just the work that he has to do;
For elfin feet those slippers are best,
That are made from the tiniest leaflet's vest;
While Nature's leather seems fitted for you,
As you wear it still!" And away he flew.

- Independent.

THE SONG OF THE BEE.

UZZ! buzz! buzz!

BUZZ

Bis is the

This is the song of the bee.

His legs are of yellow;

A jolly, good fellow,

And yet a great worker is he.

In days that are sunny
He's getting his honey;
In days that are cloudy
He's making his wax:
On pinks and on lilies,
And gay daffodillies,
And columbine blossoms,

He levies a tax!

Buzz! buzz! buzz!

The sweet-smelling clover,
He, humming, hangs over;
The scent of the roses
Makes fragrant his wings:
He never gets lazy;
From thistle and daisy,
And weeds of the meadow,
Some treasure he brings.

Buzz! buzz! buzz!

From morning's first light
Till the coming of night,
He's singing and toiling
The summer day through.
Oh! we may get weary,
And think work is dreary;
'Tis harder by far

To have nothing to do.

-

Marian Douglass.

THE BUSY BEE.

How

OW doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flower!

How skillfully she builds her cell,
How neat she spreads the wax!

And labors hard to store it well

With the sweet food she makes.

In works of labor or of skill,

I would be busy, too;

For Satan finds some mischief still

For idle hands to do.

In books, or work, or healthful play,
Let my first years be past,

That I may give for every day

Some good account at last.

- Isaac Watts

THE MOCKING-BIRD'S SONG.

ARLY on a pleasant day,

a May

Field and forest looked so fair,

So refreshing was the air,
That in spite of morning dew,
Forth I walked where tangling grew

Many a thorn and breezy bush ;

When the redbreast and the thrush

Gayly raised their early lay,
Thankful for returning day.

Every thicket, bush, and tree
Swelled with grateful harmony;
As it mildly swept along,

Echo seemed to catch the song;
But the plain was wide and clear-
Echo never whispered near ;
From a neighboring mocking-bird
Came the answering notes I heard.