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

sweet,

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,

She hath the sunshine in her hood;
For everything to love is good.

When far away I found thee,
It was an April morn;

The chilling blast blew round thee,
No bud had decked the thorn.

And thou alone wast hiding

The massy rocks between, Where, just below them gliding, The Merrimac was seen.

And while my hand was brushing
The seary leaves from thee,
It seemed that thou wast blushing
To be disclosed to me.

Thou didst reward my ramble
By shining at my feet,
When, over brake and bramble,

I sought thy lone retreat.

- Miss H. F. Gould.

A BIRD'S NEST.

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
On errands frequent and fleet,

And warbling over and over
"Sweetest, sweet, sweet, O sweet!"

Their necks are changeful and shining,
Their eyes are like living gems,
And all day long they are busy,
Gathering straws and stems,
Lint and feathers and grasses;
And half forgetting to eat;

Yet never failing to warble,

66

Sweetest, sweet, sweet, O sweet!"

I scatter crumbs on the doorsteps,
And fling them some flossy threads;
They fearlessly gather my bounty,
And turn up their graceful heads,
And chatter, and dance, and flutter,
And scrape with their tiny feet,
Telling me, over and over,
"Sweetest, sweet, sweet, O sweet!"

What if the sky is clouded?

What if the rain comes down?
They are all dressed to meet it,
In waterproof suits of brown.

They never mope nor languish
Nor murmur at storm or heat,

But say, whatever the weather, —
"Sweetest, sweet, sweet, O sweet!"-

Dear little brown-winged birds,
Teach me the happy magic
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.

BROTHER ROBIN.

LISTEN! 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
Is not where it used to be,
And the nest he made last year,
Torn and scattered far and near, -

He has neither grief nor care;
Building sites are everywhere:

If one nest is blown away,

Fields are full of sticks and hay.

Though old mousing puss last year,
Ate his little ones, I fear,

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?
Where are you waking the spaces blue?
How many little ones follow, follow,

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,
Up in the chimney is loosely hung
A queer-shaped nest where a patient mother
Brooded a brood of tender young.