That here, as in many deserted places,
Brimming with life for hours and hours,
We miss with the hum a thousand graces,
Valued the more since no more ours.

Ah! why do we shut our eyes half blindly,
And close our hearts to some wee things near,
Till He who granted them kindly, kindly

Gathers them back, that we see and hear,

And know, by the loss of the same grown dearer,
Naught is so small of his works and ways,
But, holding it tenderly when 'twas nearer,
Had added a joy to our vanished days?

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.

— Mary Barker Dodge.

IN

THE ROBIN.

'N the tall elm-tree sat the Robin bright, Through the rainy April day,

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 fell on the robin's coat,

And his brave red breast, but he never stopped
Piping his cheerful note.

For oh, the fields were green and glad,
And the blissful life that stirred

In the earth's wide breast, was full and warm
In the heart of the little bird.

The rain-cloud lifted, the sunset light
Streamed wide over valley and hill;

As the plains of heaven the land grew bright,
And the warm south wind was still.

Then loud and clear called the happy bird,

And rapturously he sang,

Till wood and meadow and river side
With jubilant echoes rang.

But the sun dropped down in the quiet west,
And he hushed his song at last;

All nature softly sank to rest,
And the April day had passed.

- Celia Thaxter.

DON'T KILL THE BIRDS.

ON'T kill the birds, the pretty birds,

DON'T

That sing about your door,

Soon as the joyous spring has come,
And chilling storms are o'er.
The little birds, how sweet they sing!

Oh! let them joyous live;

And never seek to take the life

That you can never give.

Don't kill the birds, the pretty birds,
That play among the trees;

'Twould make the earth a cheerless place,
Should we dispense with these.
The little birds, how fond they play!
Do not disturb their sport;

But let them warble forth their songs,
Till winter cuts them short.

Don't kill the birds, the happy birds,
That bless the fields and grove;
So innocent to look upon,

They claim our warmest love.
The happy birds, the tuneful birds,
How pleasant 'tis to see!

No spot can be a cheerless place

Where'er their presence be.

-Colesworthy.

A

ANXIETY.

LITTLE bird sat on the edge of her nest;

Her yellow-beaks slept as sound as tops;

That day she had done her very best,

And had filled every one of their little crops;

She had filled her own just over-full,

And hence was feeling a little dull.

"Oh, dear!" she sighed, as she sat with her head

Sunk in her chest, and no neck at all,

While her crop stuck out like a feather bed
Turned inside out, and rather small, -
"What shall I do if things don't reform?

I don't know where there's a single worm.

"I've had twenty to-day, and the children five each, Besides a few flies, and some very fat spiders,

No one will say I don't do as I preach:

I'm one of the best of bird providers.
But where's the use? we want a storm;
I don't know where there's a single worm."

"There's five in my crop," said a wee, wee bird,
That woke at the sound of his mother's pain,
"I know where there's five." And with that word
He tucked in his head, and was off again.
"The folly of childhood," sighed his mother,
"Has always been my especial bother."

The yellow-beaks they slept on and on,

They never had heard of the dread to-morrow; But the mother sat outside making her moan She'll soon have to beg, or steal, or borrow, For she never can tell the night before Where she shall find one red worm more.

The fact, as I say, was, she'd had too many;
She couldn't sleep, and she called it virtue,
Motherly foresight, affection, any

Name you may call it that will not hurt you;
So it was late when she tucked her head in,
And she slept so late it was almost a sin.

But the little fellow who knew of five,

Nor troubled his head about any more,

Woke very early, felt quite alive,

And wanted a sixth to add to his store,
He pushed his mother, the greedy elf,
Then thought he had better try for himself.

When his mother awoke and rubbed her eyes,
Feeling less like a bird, and more like a mole,
She saw him, fancy with what a surprise-
Dragging a huge worm out of a hole!
'Twas of this same hero the proverb took form,
"'Tis the early bird that catches the worm.”

George Macdonald

ROBERT OF LINCOLN.

MER

ERRILY swinging on brier and weed,
Near to the nest of his little dame,

Over the mountain-side or mead,

Robert of Lincoln is telling his name;
"Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Snug and safe is that nest of ours,
Hidden among the summer flowers.
Chee, chee, chee."

Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest,

Wearing a bright black wedding coat;

White are his shoulders, and white his crest;
Hear him call in his merry note:

"Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;