But scarcely had she placed
The last soft feather on its ample floor,

When wicked hands, or chance, again laid waste,
And wrought the ruin o'er.

But still her heart she kept,

And toiled again; and last night, hearing calls,
I looked, and, lo! three little swallows slept
Within the earth-made walls.

What truth is here, O man!

Hath hope been smitten in its early dawn?
Have clouds o'ercast thy purpose, truth, or plan.?
Have faith, and struggle on!

Do be?

O you see that bird on the apple-tree,

As white with blossoms as it can

Ask her name and she'll sing to thee

She heard you and answers, "Phe-be, Phe-be!"

Lo, here comes another! What do you
Blithely he whistles from morn till night;

think?

Timid is he and seldom in sight;
How sweetly he tells me his name

"Bob White !

you

Lo, there comes another! Where do
This fellow stands to teeter and prink?
On a clover top, where the cattle drink,
He chatters his own name, "Bobolink!"

think

And now it is night and the world is still;
Not a ray of sunshine gleams on the hill.
Another bird speaks in accents shrill,
Suddenly giving her name—"Whip-poor-will."

Who taught you, O birdies, to know so well
Those names you're always quite ready to tell
With voices musical, clear as a bell?

Alas! we must bid each other farewell.

Again we shall meet, though you'll go away:
Bobolink, Phebe, dear, sing while you stay,

95

And whistle, "Bob White," while they're making the hay;

Winter will silence the music of May.

The Young Idea.

THE BOBOLINK.

BOBOLINK, that in the meadow,

Or beneath the orchard's shadow,

Keepest up a constant rattle

Joyous as my children's prattle,
Welcome to the north again!

Welcome to mine ear the strain,

Welcome to mine eyes the sight
Of thy buff, thy black, and white.
Brighter plumes may greet the sun
By the banks of Amazon;

Sweeter tones may weave the spell
Of enchanting Philomel;

But the tropic bird would fail,
And the English nightingale,
If we should compare their worth
With thine endless gushing mirth.

When the ides of May are past,
June and summer nearing fast,
While from depths of blue above
Comes the mighty breath of love,
Calling out each bud and flower
With resistless, secret power, -
Waking hope and fond desire,
Kindling the erotic fire,

Filling youths' and maidens' dreams.
With mysterious, pleasing themes;
Then, amid the sunlight clear

Floating in the fragrant air,

Thou dost fill each heart with pleasure

By thy glad ecstatic measure.

A single note so sweet and low,
Like a full heart's overflow,

Forms the prelude; but the strain
Gives no such tone again,

For the wild and saucy song
Leaps and skips the notes among,
With such quick and sportive play,
Ne'er was madder, merrier lay.

Bobolink! still may thy gladness
Take from me all taints of sadness;
Fill my soul with trust unshaken
In that Being who has taken
Care for every living thing,

In summer, winter, fall, and spring.

FOR

THE KINGFISHER.

OR the handsome Kingfisher, go not to the tree,
No bird of the field or the forest is he;

In the dry river rock he did never abide,

And not on the brown heath all barren and wide.

He lives where the fresh, sparkling waters are flowing,
Where the tall heavy Typha and Loosestrife are growing;
By the bright little streams that all joyfully run
Awhile in the shadow, and then in the sun.

He lives in a hole that is quite to his mind,

With the green mossy Hazel roots firmly entwined;
Where the dark Alder-bough waves gracefully o'er,
And the Sword-flag and Arrow-head grow at his door.

There busily, busily, all the day long,

He seeks for small fishes the shallows among;
For he builds his nest of the pearly fish bone,

Deep, deep in the bank, far retired, and alone.

Then the brown Water-Rat from his burrow looks out, To see what his neighbor Kingfisher's about;

And the green Dragon-fly, flitting slowly away,
Just pauses one moment to bid him good-day.

O happy Kingfisher! what care should he know,
By the clear, pleasant streams, as he skims to and fro,
Now lost in the shadow, now bright in the sheen
Of the hot summer sun, glancing scarlet and green!

SOMETI

GOLDFINCHES.

OMETIMES goldfinches one by one will drop
From low hung branches; little space they stop,

But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek,
Then off at once, as in a wanton freak;

Or perhaps, to show their black and golden wings,
Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.

Were I in such a place, I sure should pray

That naught less sweet might call my thoughts away Than the soft rustle of a maiden's gown

Fanning away the dandelion's down.

-John Keats

THE MOCKING-BIRD.

ARLY on a pleasant day,

EA

In the poet's month of May,

Field and forest looked so fair.

So refreshing was the air.

That, in spite of morning dew,

Forth I walked where tangling grew