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 His tiny feet he had covered With the moist and cooling sand; When he saw us standing near him, At his babyship, he greeted us We asked our darling what pleased him; BIRD TRADES. HE swallow is a mason, TH And underneath the eaves He builds a nest, and plasters it - Selected. Of all the weavers that I know, High on the branches of the tree The woodpecker is hard at work- And you may hear him hammering Some little birds are miners: 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, 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, Each opens wide his own little bill, And he patiently waits, and gets his fill. Wisely the mother begins by and by, 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, The time when they all must say "Good-by." 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; Within the polished spheres there be 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, He folds and fits it in and out, Oh! Robin loves to prank him rare, Robin's a roguish, merry lad, And looks up, with a greeting glad, How civilly he beckons in The busy Mrs. Bee; And she tells her store of gossiping All joy all mirth-no carking care, No worldly woe has he; 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, The wind, up-rising, stirs the tree, And fast with silver tears it weeps; Pipes with his tender throat, and keeps There swings his pretty nest below; Ah, dreary sky, and dripping tree, And wind that sobbest in the wood, Know well, if anywhere love be, |