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burg Minster, where the robin and the thrush loved to nest. He left his little fortune to the monks upon two conditions: that they would pray every day for his soul, and every day feed the birds upon his grave.

So for many, many years, in times of peace and times of war, a dole of bread was scattered each morning over the tomb where Walter lay, and hundreds of little birds collected there to feed.

The spot grew famous, and strangers from all parts of Germany came to visit the poet's resting-plare, and to listen to the little songsters that repeated over and over again, in their joyous warblings, the name of Vogelweide.

No one ever threw a stone at them, no one ever disturbed their glee.

Even the children would not harm them, but stood by gently, with fingers on their lips, whispering to one another: “They are Walter's birds.”

Wurzburg (Würts/booro). Minster (min'stěr): a church connected with a monastery.


“Thistle-down, thistle-down, whither away?

Will you not longer abide ?”.
“Nay, we have wedded the winds to-day,
And home with the rovers we ride."

. Rev. J. B. Tabb.



Merry mad-cap on the tree,
Who so happy are as thee?
Is there aught so full of fun,
Half so happy 'neath the sun,
With thy merry whiskodink?

Bobolink! Bobolink!

With thy mates such merry meetings,
Such queer jokes and funny greetings;
Oh, such running and such chasing!
Oh, such banter and grimacing!
Thou’rt the wag of wags the pink —

Bobolink! Bobolink!

How you tumble 'mong the hay,
Romping all the summer's day;
Now upon the wing all over,
In and out among the clover,
Far too happy e'er to think —

Bobolink! Bobolink!

Now thou’rt on the apple tree,
Crying, “Listen unto me!”
Now upon the mossy banks,

Where thou cuttest up such pranks —
One would think thou wert in drink -

Bobolink! Bobolink!

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Gather a single blade of grass, and examine its narrow sword-shaped strip of tufted green.

Nothing there, as it seems, of notable goodness or beauty. A very little strength and a very little tallness, and a few delicate long lines meeting in a point — not a perfect point, but blunt and unfinished.

And yet, think well of it, and judge whether of all the gorgeous flowers that beam in summer air, and of all strong and goodly trees, pleasant to the eyes, or good for food – stately palm and pine, strong ash and oak — there be any by man so deeply loved, by God so highly graced, as that narrow blade of green.

From "Modern Paintersby Ruskin.



JAMES D. EDGAR, of Toronto, Ontario; a lawyer and poet. He has been for some years a member of the Canadian Parliament. His writings show he is a keen observer, as well as a writer. He attaches the following note to these lines about the songs-parrow of Canada:

“Every resident in the northern and eastern counties of the Dominion has heard the note of the song-sparrow in all the woods and fields through the early days of spring. While his voice is familiar to the ear, very few can boast of having seen him, so carefully does he conceal himself from view. He dwells long upon his first and second notes, and, in metrical phrase, he forms a distinct 'spondee'? He then rattles off at least three "dactyls' in quick succession. In different localities, different words are supplied to his music. Early settlers heard him echoing their despair with ‘Hard times in Canada, Canada, Canada.' Others maintain that he is searching for traces of a dark crime, and unceasingly demands to know “Who-killed-Kennedy, Kennedy, Kennedy?' The thrifty farmer detects the words of warning, Come-now-sow-the-wheat, sow-the-wheat, sow-the-wheat.' The writer has distinctly recognized in the little song the melancholy sentiments indicated in these lines.”

From the leafy maple ridges,
From the thickets of the cedar,
From the alders by the river,
From the bending willow branches,
From the hollows and the hillsides,
Through the lone Canadian forest,
Comes the melancholy music,
Oft repeated — never changing —


Where the farmer ploughs his furrow,
Sowing seed with hope of harvest,

In the orchard white with blossom,
In the early field of clover,
Comes the little brown-clad singer,
Flitting in and out of bushes,
Hiding well behind the fences,
Piping forth his song of sadness —



Jane. — Let us have a class party to-day. We have not had one for some time.

Martin. - Let us each select one character from our last reading lessons. I will be Frank Chase.

Robert.- Well, I rather like that boy myself, but as you have taken him, I'll be Pegasus, the winged steed.

James. — Modest boys, both of you. Look at me! I’m Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Jane.- You have not given me a chance to speak; but please understand I'm Alfred Tennyson.

Sarah. I think I'll be Agnes Repplier, for I've heard that she has written books — whole books — about cats, and I like cats.

Henry. — Listen to me. I'm a Canadian; I'm Alexander McLachlan.

Charles. — And I'm another Canadian, James D. Edgar, at your service.

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