She hath the sunshine in her hood; - James Buckham — Youth's Companion THE GROUND LAUREL. LOVE thee, pretty nursling Of vernal sun and rain; For thou art Flora's firstling, And leadest in her train. When far away I found thee, The chilling blast blew round thee, And thou alone wast hiding The massy rocks between, Where, just below them gliding, The Merrimac was seen. And while my hand was brushing Thou didst reward my ramble I sought thy lone retreat. -Miss H. F. Gould. A BIRD'S NEST. Ο OVER mittle VER my shaded doorway, Two little brown-winged birds Have chosen to fashion their dwelling, And utter their loving words. All day they are going and coming And warbling over and over Their necks are changeful and shining, I scatter crumbs on the doorsteps, "Sweetest, sweet, sweet, O sweet!" What if the sky is clouded? What if the rain comes down? They never mope nor languish But say, whatever the weather, — "Sweetest, sweet, sweet, O sweet! Always merry and busy, Dear little brown-winged birds, Hidden in these soft words, Which always, in shine or shadow, So lovingly you repeat Over, and over, and over, "Sweetest, sweet, sweet, O sweet!" - Florence Percy L' BROTHER ROBIN. ISTEN! in the April rain, Brother Robin's here again: Songs like showers come and go; He is house-building, I know. Though he finds the old pine-tree He has neither grief nor care; If one nest is blown away, Fields are full of sticks and hay. Though old mousing puss last year, And he almost died of fright, That is all forgotten quite. -Mrs. Anderson. A THE CHIMNEY NEST. DAINTY, delicate swallow-feather Is all that we now in the chimney trace Of something that, days and days together, With twittering bird-notes filled the place. Where are you flying now, swallow, swallow? Whose wings to strength in the chimney grew? Deep and narrow, and dark and lonely, The sooty place that you nested in ; Over you one blue glimmer only, Say, were there many to make the din? This is certain, that, somewhere or other, A queer-shaped nest where a patient mother G That here, as in many deserted places, Ah! why do we shut our eyes half blindly, Gathers them back, that we see and hear, And know, by the loss of the same grown dearer, So, little, delicate swallow-feather, Fashioned with care by the Master's hand, I'll hold you close for your message, whether Or not the whole I may understand. IN THE ROBIN. N the tall elm-tree sat the Robin bright, And he caroled clear with a pure delight, In the face of the sky so gray. And the silver rain through the blossoms dropped, And his brave red breast, but he never stopped |