I hear the Hairbird's slender trill,

So fine and perfect it doth fill

The whole sweet silence with its thrill.

A rosy flush creeps up the sky,
The birds begin their symphony.
I hear the clear, triumphant voice
Of the Robin, bidding the world rejoice.
The Vireos catch the theme of the song,
And the Baltimore Oriole bears it along,
While from Sparrow, and Thrush, and Wood Pewee,
And, deep in the pine-trees, the Chickadee,
There's an undercurrent of harmony.

The Linnet sings like a magic flute,
The Lark and Bluebird touch the lute,
The Starling pipes to the shining morn
With the vibrant note of the joyous horn,
The splendid Jay

Is the trumpeter gay,

The Kingfisher, sounding his rattle, he
May the player on the cymbals be,

The Cock, saluting the sun's first ray,

Is the bugler sounding a reveille.

"Caw! Caw!" cries the crow, and his grating tone Completes the chord like a deep trombone.

But, above them all, the Robin sings;
His song is the very soul of day,
And all black shadows troop away
While, pure and fresh, his music rings:
"Light is here!

Never fear!

Day is near!

My dear!"

MISS HARRIET E. PAINE.

EVENING SONGS.

Gliding at sunset in my boat,
I hear the Veery's bubbling note;
And a Robin, flying late,

Sounds the home-call to. his mate.

Then the sun sinks low

In the western glow,

And the birds go to rest.

But hush!

Far off sings the sweet Wood-Thrush.

He sings and waits - and sings again,

The liquid notes of that holy strain.

He ceases, and all the world is still :
And then the moon climbs over the hill,
And I hear the cry of the Whip-poor-will..

Tranquil, I lay me down to sleep,
While the summer stars a vigil keep;

And I hear from the Sparrow a gentle trill,

Which means,

"Good Night; Peace and Good Will."

MISS HARRIET E. PAINE.

LITTTE BROWN BIRD.

A little brown bird sat on a stone;
The sun shone thereon, but he was alone.

"O pretty bird, do you not weary

Of this gay summer so long and dreary?"

The little bird opened his black bright eyes,
And looked at me with great surprise;

Then his joyous song broke forth, to say,

66

Weary of what? I can sing all day."

LIFE'S SIGN.

Posies for Children.

Wouldst thou the life of souls discern,
Not human wisdom nor divine
Helps thee by aught beside to learn,
Love is life's only sign.

KEBLE.

A BIRD'S MINISTRY.

From his home in an Eastern bungalow,
In sight of the everlasting snow

Of the grand Himalayas, row on row,

Thus wrote my friend :

"I had travelled far

From the Afghan towers of Candahar,

Through the sand-white plains of Sinde-Sagar;

"And once, when the daily march was o'er,

As tired I sat in my tented door,

Hope failed me, as never it failed before.

"In swarming city, at wayside fane,

By the Indus' bank, on the scorching plain,

I had taught, and my teaching all seemed vain.

-

"No glimmer of light (I sighed) appears; The Moslem's Fate and the Buddhist's fears

Have gloomed their worship this thousand years.

666

"For Christ and his truth I stand alone

In the midst of millions: a sand-grain blown
Against your temple of ancient stone

"As soon may level it!' Faith forsook My soul, as I turned on the pile to look; Then, rising, my saddened way I took

To its lofty roof, for the cooler air:

I gazed, and marvelled ; —how crumbled were The walls I had deemed so firm and fair!

For, wedged in a rift of the massive stone,
Most plainly rent by its roots alone,
A beautiful peepul-tree had grown :

Whose gradual stress would still expand
The crevice, and topple upon the sand

The temple, while o'er its wreck should stand

The tree in its living verdure!

Who

Could compass the thought? The bird that flew Hitherward, dropping a seed that grew,

Did more to shiver this ancient wall
Than earthquake, war, —simoon,
The centuries, in their lapse and fall!

or all

Then I knelt by the riven granite there,
And my soul shook off its weight of care,
As my voice rose clear on the tropic air:—

"The living seeds I have dropped remain

In the cleft: Lord, quicken with dew and rain,
Then temple and mosque shall be rent in twain!

MARGARET J. PRESTON.

OF BIRDS.

See, Christ makes the birds our masters and teachers! so that a feeble sparrow, to our great and perpetual shame, stands in the gospel as a doctor and preacher to the wisest of men. MARTIN LUTHER.

Such a ceaseless croon and twitter
Overhead!

Such a flash of wings that glitter
Wide outspread!

Far away I hear a drumming, -
Tap, tap, tap!

Can the woodpecker be coming
After sap?

Butterflies are hovering over
(Swarms on swarms)

Yonder meadow-patch of clover,

Like snow-storms.

Through the vibrant air a-tingle

Buzzingly,

Throbs and o'er me sails a single

Bumble-bee.