Now what can it mean, they 're so happy and gay! Could it be that I made such a blunder that day, And mistook my own nest? I fear, Mrs. Duck, That you never can pardon me.

Cluckity, cluck!

S. E. EASTMAN.

THE SCARLET TANAGER.

Magic bird, but rarely seen,
Phoenix in our forest green,
Plumed with fire and quick as flame,
Phoenix! else thou hast no name!

Tell me how, with shreds of light,
Plucked from sunset vapors bright,
Thou didst weave thy secret nest
Midst the forests of the west!

Thou 'rt a visible desire,

Quick as flame and plumed with fire,

Of the heat of Fancy born.

-

Still unwearied, still unshorn!

When these summer boughs grow old,

And are changed to forest mould,
Wilt thou not on favored wings
Fly to realms the poet sings-
Some far shining oasis, -
Mystic Heliopolis,

Fair with floating dome and spire

There to build thy funeral pyre!

EDITH M. Thomas.

WHO IS THE SEA-BIRD'S FOE?

When the wild waves at the retreating tide
Round some low promontory leap and wrangle,
And 'mid the rocks you see the fowler hide

Where sea-birds stoop for food in oozy tangle; ·

When hidden in the hollow of his boat

-

The practised marksman with his gun lies rocking, And wheeling round with curious eye

you note The hapless sea-birds to destruction flocking;

When on hard rock or crimsoned wave they fall,
And at the slayer's feet in heaps are dying,
And now for food their unfledged nestlings call
In vain
bare cliff by thousands dying:

on yon

By whom is nerved the sanguinary hand

Which spreads a cloud of woe o'er cliff and water, And drives these living sunbeams from our strand? By thee, fair sister, wife, or gentle daughter!

Who to set off the glory of your hair,

For your brave hat demands the sea-bird's glory, Nor will one feather from your tresses spare To put an end to all this tragic story.

You are the sea-bird's foe! You give the word
Their snowy plumes to plunder, not to cherish;

That you may buy

That you may dress

the murderous guns are heard;

the lovely sea-birds perish!

RICHARD WILTON.

UNOFFENDING CREATURES.

The Being that is in the clouds and air, leaves among the groves,

That is in the green

Maintains a deep and reverential care

For the unoffending creatures whom he loves.

One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,

Taught both by what He shows, and what conceals, Never to blend our pleasure or our pride

With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.

WORDSWORTH.

SEPTEMBER.

And sooth to say, yon vocal grove

Albeit uninspired by love,

By love untaught to ring,

May well afford to mortal ear

An impulse more profoundly dear

Than music of the spring.

But list! though winter storms be nigh
Unchecked is that soft harmony:

There lives Who can provide,

For all his creatures : and in Him,
Even like the radiant Seraphim,

These choristers confide.

WORDSWORTH.

EAGLE.

Say! who can soar beyond the eagle's flight:
Has he not reached to glory's utmost height?

GAY.

THE SWALLOW.

When weary, weary winter

Hath melted into air,
And April leaf and blossom

Hath clothed the branches bare,
Came round our English dwelling
A voice of summer cheer:
"T was thine, returning swallow,
The welcome and the dear.

Far on the billowy ocean

A thousand leagues are we,
Yet here, sad hovering o'er our bark,
What is it that we see?

Dear old familiar swallow,

What gladness dost thou bring:

Here rest upon our flowing sail

Thy weary, wandering wing.

MRS. HOWITT.

RETURNING BIRDS.

Birds, joyous birds of the wandering wing

Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring? "We come from the shores of the green old Nile, From the land where the roses of Sharon smile, From the palms that wave through the Indian sky, From the myrrh trees of glowing Araby."

THE BIRDS.

With elegies of love

Make vocal every spray.

MRS. HEMANS.

CUNNINGHAM.

THRUSH.

Whither hath the wood thrush flown
From our greenwood bowers?
Wherefore builds he not again
Where the wild thorn flowers?

Bid him come! for on his wings
The sunny year he bringeth,
And the heart unlocks its springs

Wheresoe'er he singeth.

BARRY CORNWALL.

LINNET.

Within the bush her covert nest
A little linnet fondly prest,
The dew sat chilly on her breast
Sae early in the morning.

She soon shall see her tender brood

The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, Among the fresh green leaves bedewed, Awake the early morning.

NIGHTINGALE.

But thee no wintry skies can harm

Who only needs to sing

To make even January charm

And every season Spring.

BURNS.

COWPER.

SONGSTERS.

Little feathered songsters of the air

In woodlands tuneful woo and fondly pair.

SAVAGE.