He hailed the bird in Spanish speech, THE COMMON QUESTION. Behind us at our evening meal He shook his wings and crimson tail, And, in his sharp, impatient way, Asked, "What does Charlie want?" "Fie, silly bird!" I answered, "tuck Your head beneath your wing, The boy with whip and top and drum, However full, with something more We fain the bag would cram; We sigh above our crowded nets For fish that never swam. No bounty of indulgent Heaven The dear God hears and pities all; And so I sometimes think our prayers And nest and perch and hearth and church JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. WHY NOT DO IT, SIR, TO-DAY? "Why, so I will, you noisy bird, This very day I'll advertise you, Perhaps some busy ones may prize you. A fine-tongued parrot as was ever heard, I'll word it thus set forth all charms about you, And say no family should be without you." Thus far a gentleman addressed a bird; Then to his friend: "An old procrastinator, Sir, I am do you wonder that I hate her? Though she but seven words can say, Twenty and twenty times a day She interferes with all my dreams, To this the bird seven words did say : "Why not do it, sir, to-day? CHARLES AND MARY LAMB. Daily near my table steal, While I pick my scanty meal: J. LANGHORNE. PHOBE. Ere pales in heaven the morning star, A bird, the loneliest of its kind, Hears dawn's faint footfall from afar, While all its mates are dumb and blind. It is a wee, sad-colored thing, It seems pain-prompted to repeat It calls and listens earth and sky, Comes from the doom-dissevered mate. Phœbe! it calls and calls again, And Ovid, could he but have heard, Had hung a legendary pain About the memory of the bird ; A pain articulate so long In penance of some mouldered crime, Phoebe is all it has to say In plaintive cadence o'er and o'er, And know their names, but nothing more. Is it in type, since Nature's lyre Meant to be so, since life began? I, in strange lands at gray of dawn, So nigh! yet from remotest years JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL: in Scribner. TO THE STORK. Welcome, O Stork! that dost wing Descend, O Stork! descend Upon our roof to rest; In our ash-tree, O my friend, To thee, O Stork, I complain, |