PLANTED HIMSELF TO GROW.

EAR, little, bright-eyed Willie,

DEA

Always so full of glee,

Always so very mischievous,

The pride of our home is he.

One bright summer day we found him
Close by the garden wall,
Standing so grave and dignified
Beside a sunflower tall.

His tiny feet he had covered

With the moist and cooling sand;
The stalk of the great, tall sunflower
He grasped with his chubby hand.

When he saw us standing near him,
Gazing so wonderingly

At his babyship, he greeted us
With a merry shout of glee.

We asked our darling what pleased him;
He replied with a face aglow,
"Mamma, I'm going to be a man;
I've planted myself to grow."

BIRD TRADES.

HE swallow is a mason,

TH

And underneath the eaves

He builds a nest, and plasters it
With mud and hay and leaves.

- Selected.

Of all the weavers that I know,
The oriole is the best;

High on the branches of the tree
She hangs her cosy nest.

The woodpecker is hard at work-
A carpenter is he-

And you may hear him hammering
His nest high up a tree.

Some little birds are miners:
Some build upon the ground:

And busy little tailors, too,

Among the birds are found.

Selected.

THE LITTLE DOVES.

IGH on the top of an old pine-tree

HIGH

Broods a mother-dove with her young ones three.

Warm over them is her soft, downy breast,

And they sing so sweetly in their nest.

66

Coo," say the little ones, "Coo," says she,

All in their nest on the old pine-tree.

Soundly they sleep through the moonshiny night,
Each young one covered and tucked in tight;
Morn wakes them up with the first blush of light,
And they sing to each other with all their might.
"Coo," say the little ones, "Coo," says she,
All in their nest on the old pine-tree.

When in the nest they are all left alone,

While their mother far for their dinner has flown,

Quiet and gentle they all remain,

Till their mother they see come home again.

Then "Coo," say the little ones, "Coo," says she, All in their nest on the old pine-tree.

When they are fed by their tender mother,
One never pushes nor crowds another;

Each opens wide his own little bill,

And he patiently waits, and gets his fill.
Then "Coo," say the little ones, "Coo," says she,
All in their nest on the old pine-tree.

Wisely the mother begins by and by,
To make her young ones learn to fly;
Just for a little way over the brink,

Then back to the nest as quick as a wink.

And "Coo," say the little ones, "Coo," says she, All in their nest on the old pine-tree.

Fast grow the young ones, day and night,
Till their wings are plumed for a longer flight;
Till unto them at last draws nigh

The time when they all must say "Good-by."
Then "Coo," say the little ones, "Coo," says she,
And away they fly from the old pine-tree.

Selected

A

CHANGELINGS.

LONG the orchard's fragrant way

I walked in flower-embroidered May;

The apple-trees were all alight

With opening buds of rose and white.

On the same path I pass again;

The faded grass is wet with rain;
The sweet young year is growing old;
My flowers are changed to globes of gold.

Within the polished spheres there be
Rare honey and rich spicerie;

From sun and wind and blossom bell

The patient days have wrought the spell.

-M. F. B. - Youth's Companion.

A

RAGGED ROBIN.

MAN of taste is Robinet,

A dandy, spruce and trim! Whoe'er would dainty fashions set, Should go and look at him.

Rob scorns to wear his crimson coat,
As common people do,

He folds and fits it in and out,
And does it bravely, too.

Oh! Robin loves to prank him rare,
With fringe, and flounce, and all;
Till you'd take him for a lady fair
Just going to a ball.

Robin's a roguish, merry lad,
He dances in the breeze,

And looks up, with a greeting glad,
To the rustling hedge-row trees.

How civilly he beckons in

The busy Mrs. Bee;

And she tells her store of gossiping
O'er his honey and his glee.

All joy all mirth-no carking care,

No worldly woe has he;
Alack! I wish my lot it were

To live as happily!

-L. A. Twamley.

THE SONG IN THE STORM.

T rains, but on a dripping bough

IT

a

A little bird sings clear and sweet,
I think he knows not why nor how,
Except that with his slender feet
He feels dear Nature's pulses beat.

The wind, up-rising, stirs the tree,

And fast with silver tears it weeps;
The little bird more cheerily

Pipes with his tender throat, and keeps
His faith in sunshine, tho' it sleeps!

There swings his pretty nest below;
His mate sits listening to his song;
'Tis love that makes her bosom glow,
'Tis love that whispers all day long
"Sleep, sleep, my nestlings, and grow strong!"

Ah, dreary sky, and dripping tree,

And wind that sobbest in the wood,

Know well, if anywhere love be,