And I, and the children, and the doves, Partakers of his rest. LAURA WINTHROP JOHNSON. SONG OF THE DOVE. There sitteth a dove so white and fair, And she listeneth how, to Jesus Christ, Lightly she spreads her friendly wings, And unto the Father in heaven she bears And back she comes from heaven's gate, From the Father in heaven, who hears her speak, Then, children, lift up a pious prayer, It hears whatever you say, That heavenly dove, so white and fair, That sits on the lily spray. FREDERIKA BREMER. WHAT THE QUAIL SAYS. Whistles the quail from the covert, High and shrill, day after day, Ginx (the little one, bold and bright, Sure that he understands aright) "He says, 'Bob White! Bob White!"" Calls the quail from the cornfield, Thick with stubble set; Misty rain-clouds floating by Hide the blue of the August sky. Gold Locks "That's a sign of rain! 6 He calls More wet! more wet!"" Pipes the quail from the fence-top, Quaint and trim, with quick, bright eye, "What do I think he says? My dear, He says 'Do right! do right!' 999 MRS. CLARA DOTY BATES. CHICK-A-DEE-DEE, The snowflakes are drifting round windows and door; The chilly winds whistle "Remember the poor; Remember the birds, too, out on yonder tree; I hear one just singing a Chick-a-dee-dee. Throw out a few crumbs! you've enough and to spare ; Each morning you'll see them go hopping around, Yet never disheartened! on each bush and tree, Oh! sweet little songster; so fearless and bold! do they never feel cold? Your little pink feet Have you a warm shelter at night for your bed, Where under your wing you can tuck your brown head? Though cold grows the season you seem not to care, Though short are the days, and the nights are so long, The snowflakes are drifting round window and door, MRS. C. F. Berry. THE LINNET. What is the happiest morning song? The Linnet's. He warbles, blithe and free, The trees are not high enough, little bird; A crimson speck in the bright blue sky, you search for the secret of heaven's deep glow? Is not heaven within, when you carol so? Then why, dear bird, must you soar so high? He answers nothing, but soars and sings; And sings, and mounts on shining wings. HARRIET E. PAINE: Bird Songs of New England. HEAR THE WOODLAND LINNET. Books! 't is a dull and endless strife: And hark! how blithe the Throstle sings! Sweet is the love which Nature brings : Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things: Enough of Science and of Art: Close up these barren leaves : Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives. W. WORDSWORTH. THE PARROT. A TRUE STORY. The deep affections of the breast By human hearts. A Parrot, from the Spanish main, To spicy groves where he had won For these he changed the smoke of turf, But petted in our climate cold, He lived and chattered many a day : Until with age, from green and gold His wings grew gray. At last when blind, and seeming dumb, To Mulla's shore; |