The robins stay all year with us,
And when it's very cold,

They come and chirp about the house,
For hunger makes them bold.

And when we see them hopping near, And waiting to be fed,

We'll go and watch them quietly,

And give them crumbs of bread.

In summer time, with tender care,
They fed their helpless brood,
And now I think deserve our help,
When they can find no food.

BIRDS NESTS.

THE skylark's nest among the grass
And waving corn is found;
The robin's on a shady bank,

With oak-leaves strew'd around.

The wren builds in an ivied thorn,
Or old and ruin'd wall;
The mossy nest so cover'd in,

You scarce can see at all.

The martins build their nests of clay,
In rows beneath the eaves;
The silvery lichens, moss, and hair,
The chaffinch interweaves.

The cuckoo makes no nest at all,
But through the wood she strays,
Until she finds one snug and warm,
And there her eggs she lays.

The sparrow has a nest of hay,
With feathers warmly lined;
The ring-dove's careless nest of sticks,
On lofty trees we find.

Rooks build together in a wood,

And often disagree;

The owl will build inside a barn,

Or in a hollow tree.

The blackbird's nest of grass and mud
In bush and bank is found;
The lapwing's darkly spotted eggs
Are laid upon the ground.

The magpie's nest is made with thorns

In leafless tree or hedge;

The wild-duck and the water-hen

Build by the water's edge.

Birds build their nests from year to year,

According to their kind;

Some very neat and beautiful,—

Some simpler ones we find.

The habits of each little bird,
And all its patient skill,

Are surely taught by God himself,
And order'd by His will.

STAR CHILD.

IN a pleasant chamber close beside
A lofty window deep and wide,

Stood a little bed, in whose bosom deep
A young boy went to his nightly sleep.
The window was as a crystal door,
Opening out on the silent night;

And the radiance of the clear star-light
Lay in white streaks on the chamber floor,
And shone on the pillow and the bed,
And brighten'd the sleeper's beautiful head.

And all the night, as one by one,
The shining stars went up the sky,

They paused, and look'd through that window high;
And as each and every star in turn,
Like a crown of silver lustre shone,

Round the head of the boy, more still and deep,
More starry and bright, grew his innocent sleep.
One night he awoke, and one star alone

Through that lofty casement was shining down:
He gazed and he gazed, till it grew like an eye,
Placid and clear in the midnight sky;
Then the boy look'd trustfully up and smiled,
And the star look'd brightly back to the child.'

The morrow he went to his pictures and play;
But ever and often he turn'd him away,
And smiled to his thought, as though a fair dream
Were passing him and his sports between.

The mother questions him gently the while, "Why does my boy look upward and smile?" "O mother! O mother! I would you might see The beautiful angel that's watching me.'

THE SKYLARK.

It is a pleasant thing
To walk at early day,
To see the pretty flowers,

And smell the sweet new hay.

The sun is warm and bright,
The sky is clear and blue,
And all the trees and flowers

Are wet with drops of dew.

Hush! don't you hear the bird
That's singing in the sky?
No bird except the lark
Would fly so very high.

It left it's little nest

When day was just begun,
And flew so high to bid
Good morning to the sun,
"Good morning, shining Sun,"
I think the lark would say,
"I'm happy in my heart
This fine warm summer day.

"I'm very glad you're come,

You make the world so light, And all the trees and flowers

So beautiful and bright.

"I'll sing a merry song,

And then fly down to rest, Or search for worms to feed My young ones in the nest." The lark has done its song, And settled on the ground, But we will not forget

The sweet and happy sound. And when our hearts are glad

In long, bright summer days,
To God in heaven we'll sing

Our songs and hymns of praise.
God loves each thing He made,
However weak and small;
But glad and thankful hearts
He loves the best of all.

THE MONTHS.

JANUARY brings the snow,

Makes our feet and fingers glow.

February brings the rain,

Thaws the frozen lake again.

March brings breezes loud and shrill,

Stirs the dancing daffodil.