I think she must be in great trouble,"
Said Swallow to little Blue Jay.

"I know why the Robin is crying," Said Wren, with a sob in her breast; "A naughty bold robber has stolen

Three little blue eggs from her nest.

"He carried them home in his pocket;
I saw him, from up in this tree :
Ah me! how my little heart fluttered

For fear he would come and rob me!"

"Oh! what little boy was so wicked?"
Said Swallow, beginning to cry ;
"I would n't be guilty of robbing

A dear little bird's-nest - not I."

"Nor I!" said the birds in a chorus: "A cruel and mischievous boy!

I pity his father and mother;

He surely can't give them much joy.

"I guess he forgot what a pleasure
The dear little robins all bring,
In early spring-time and in summer,
By the beautiful songs that they sing.

66 guess he forgot that the rule is,

I

To do as you'd be always done by ; guess he forgot that from heaven There looks down an All-seeing Eye."

MRS. C. F. BERRY.

WHAT THE BIRDS SAY.

When they chatter together, the robins and sparrows, Bluebirds and bobolinks, all the day long;

-

What do they talk of? The sky and the sunshine,
The state of the weather, the last pretty song;

Of love and of friendship, and all the sweet trifles
That go to make bird-life so careless and free;
The number of grubs in the apple-tree yonder,
The promise of fruit in the big cherry-tree;

Of matches in prospect; how Robin and Jenny
Are planning together to build them a nest;
How Bobolink left Mrs. Bobolink moping

At home, and went off on a lark with the rest.

Such mild little slanders! such innocent gossip!
Such gay little coquetries, pretty and bright!
Such happy love makings! such talks in the orchard!
Such chatterings at daybreak! such whisperings at
night!

O birds in the tree-tops! O robins and sparrows!
O bluebirds and bobolinks! what would be May
Without your glad presence, the songs that you sing

us,

And all the sweet nothings we fancy you say

?

CAROLINE A. MASON.

Sweet Mercy is Nobility's true badge.

Titus Andronicus, Act 1, Sc. 2.

THE WREN'S NEST.

I took the wren's nest:

Heaven forgive me!

Its merry architects so small

Had scarcely finished their wee hall
That, empty still, and neat and fair,
Hung idly in the summer air.
The mossy walls, the dainty door,
Where Love should enter and explore,
And Love sit carolling outside,
And Love within chirp multiplied;
I took the wren's nest:
Heaven forgive me!

How many hours of happy pains
Through early frosts and April rains,
How many songs at eve and morn
O'er springing grass and greening corn,
What labors hard through sun and shade
Before the pretty house was made!
One little minute, only one,

And she 'll fly back, and find it — gone!
I took the wren's nest :
Bird, forgive me!

Thou and thy mate, sans let, sans fear, Ye have before all the year,

you

And every wood holds nooks for you,
In which to sing and build and woo;
One piteous cry of birdish pain
And ye 'll begin your life again,
Forgetting quite the lost, lost home

In many a busy home to come.
But I? your wee house keep I must,
Until it crumble into dust.

I took the wren's nest:

God forgive me!

DINAH MARIA (MULOCK) CRAIK.

ON ANOTHER'S SORROW.

Can I see another's woe,

And not be in sorrow too?

Can I see another's grief,

And not seek for kind relief?

Can I see a falling tear,

And not feel my sorrow's share?
Can a father see his child

Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?

Can a mother sit and hear

An infant groan, an infant fear?
No, no! never can it be !
Never, never can it be!

And can He who smiles on all

Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small bird's grief and care,
Hear the woes that infants bear-

And not sit beside the nest,
Pouring pity in their breast,
And not sit in the cradle near,
Weeping tear on infant's tear?

And not sit both night and day,
Wiping all our tears away?

Oh no! never can it be !

Never, never can it be !

WILLIAM BLAKE.

THE SHEPHERD'S HOME.

My banks they are furnished with bees,
Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
My grottoes are shaded with trees,

And my hills are white over with sheep.
I seldom have met with a loss,

Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all bordered with moss, Where the harebells and violets blow.

Not a pine in the grove is there seen,

But with tendrils of woodbine is bound:

Not a beech's more beautiful green,

But a sweet-brier entwines it around. Not my fields in the prime of the year, More charms than my cattle unfold; Not a brook that is limpid and clear, But it glitters with fishes of gold.

I found out a gift for my fair,

I have found where the wood-pigeons breed; But let me such plunder forbear,

She will say 't was a barbarous deed;

For he ne'er could be true, she averred,

Who would rob a poor bird of its young; And I loved her the more when I heard

Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

SHENSTONE (d. 1678).