Though blithe of voice, so shy you are,
In this delightful weather;

What splendid playmates you and I,
"Bob White," would make together!

There, you are gone! but far away
I hear your whistle falling.
Ah! may be it is hide-and-seek,
And that's why you are calling.
Along those hazy uplands wide

We'd be such merry rangers;

What! silent now, and hidden too?

"Bob White," don't let's be strangers.

Perhaps you teach your brood the game,
In yonder rainbowed thicket,

While winds are playing with the leaves,
And softly creaks the cricket.

“Bob White! Bob White!" again I hear
That blithely whistled chorus ;
Why should we not companions be?
One Father watches o'er us!

"He calleth and calleth year by year, Now there, now here;

Ever He maketh the way appear.”

Dear little birds, He calleth me
Who calleth ye:

Would that I might as trusting be!

- Harriet McEwen Kimball.

THE STORMY PETREL.

THIS is the bird that sweeps o'er the sea —

Fearless and rapid and strong is he;

He never forsakes the billowy roar,

To dwell in calm on the tranquil shore,

Save when his mate, from the tempest's shocks, Protects her young in the splintered rocks.

Birds of the sea, they rejoice in storms;

On the top of the wave you may see their forms;
They run and dive, and they whirl and fly,
Where the glittering foam-spray breaks on high;
And against the force of the strongest gale,
Like phantom ships they soar and sail.

All over the ocean, far from land,

When the storm-king rises dark and grand,
The mariner sees the petrel meet

The fathomless waves with steady feet,

And a tireless wing and a dauntless breast,
Without a home or a hope of rest.

So, mid the contest and toil of life,

My soul! when the billows of rage and strife

Are tossing high, and the heavenly blue
Is shrouded by vapors of somber hue-
Like the petrel wheeling o'er foam and spray,
Onward and upward pursue thy way.

THE

THE STORMY PETREL.

HE lark sings for joy in her own loved land,
In the furrowed field, by the breezes fanned;
And so revel we

In the furrowed sea,

As joyous and glad as the lark can be.

On the placid breast of the inland lake
The wild duck delights her pastime to take;
But the petrel braves

The wild ocean waves,

His wing in the foaming billow he laves.

The halcyon loves in the noontide beam
To follow his sport on the tranquil stream;
He fishes at ease

In the summer breeze,

But we go angling in stormiest seas.

No song-note have we but a piping cry,

That blends with the storm when the wind is high. When the land-birds wail

We sport in the gale,

And merrily over the ocean we sail.

- Selected.

THE FLIGHT OF THE BIRDS.

HITHER away, robin,
Whither away?

WHITHI

Is it through envy of the maple-leaf,

Whose blushes mock the crimson of thy breast,
Thou wilt not stay?

The summer days were long, yet all too brief
The happy season thou hast been our guest;
Whither away?

Whither away, bluebird,
Whither away?

The blast is chill, yet in the upper sky
Thou still canst find the color of thy wing,
The hue of May.

Warbler, why speed thy Southern flight? ah, why,
Thou, too, whose song first told us of the spring?
Whither away?

Whither away, swallow,
Whither away?

Canst thou no longer tarry in the North,

Here, where our roof so well hath screened thy nest? Not one short day?

Wilt thou as if thou human wert

go forth

And wanton far from them who love thee best?

Whither away?

- Edmund Clarence Stedman.

Dow

OWN drop the painted leaves;
The world lies stripped and

wounded, cold and bare;

Piled are the golden sheaves, And passed is every object sweet and fair.

Now faded are the flowers, And grass on sloping hills and tranquil dales;

And songless are the bowers, Where lovers came and breathed

their secret tales.

The fruits are ripe and gone;

The fields have lost their wealth and vernal cheer; The stars throw smiles upon

The full-armed gleaners of the harvest year.

Winds come with chilling breath;

Rains fall, and brooks from woods begin to rise;
Gloom fills the realm of death;

And birds take flight for warmth of Southern skies.

There's nothing bright nor fair,

Save fields of wheat that wear their cloaks of green; There's nothing in the air

But chill, where rays of gold and love have been.

The seed of change was sown

Through months, by viewless hands, in field and town; And Autumn, near his throne,

Lets fall his crowded horn and brazen crown.