THREE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING.

WHAT do the robins whisper about

WHAT

From their homes in the elms and birches?

I've tried to study the riddle out,

But still in my mind is many a doubt,

In spite of deep researches.

While over the world is silence deep,
In the twilight of early dawning,
They begin to chirp and twitter and peep,
As if they were talking in their sleep,
At three o'clock in the morning.

Perhaps the little ones stir and complain
That it's time to be up and doing;
And the mother-bird sings a drowsy strain.
To coax them back to their dreams again,
Though distant cocks are crowing.

Or do they tell secrets that should not be heard
By mortals listening and prying?

Perhaps we might learn from some whispering word
The best way to bring up a little bird -

Or the wonderful art of flying.

It may be they speak of an autumn day,
When, with many a feathered roamer,
Under the clouds so cold and gray,
Over the hill they take their way,

In search of the vanished summer.

It may be they gossip from nest to nest,
Hidden and leaf-enfolded;

For do we not often hear it confessed,

When a long-kept secret at last is guessed,
That "a little bird has told it "?

Perhaps but the question is wrapped in doubt,

They give me no hint or warning. Listen, and tell me if you find out What do the robins talk about

At three o'clock in the morning.

WHO STOLE THE BIRD'S NEST?

O-WHIT, to-whit, to-whee!

"TO

Will you listen to me?

Who stole four eggs I laid,

And the nice nest I made?"

"Not I," said the cow; "moo-oo!
Such a thing I'd never do.

I gave you a wisp of hay,

But didn't take your nest away.
Not I," said the cow; "moo-oo!
Such a thing I'd never do!"

"Bob-o'-link! bob-o'-link!

Now, what do you think?

Who stole a nest away

From the plum-tree to-day?"

"Not I," said the dog; "bow-wow!
I wouldn't be so mean anyhow.
I gave hairs the nest to make,
But the nest I did not take.
Not I," said the dog; "bow-wow!
I wouldn't be so mean anyhow!"

"Coo-coo, coo-coo, coo-coo!
Let me speak a word or two:
Who stole that pretty nest
From little yellow breast?"

"Not I," said the sheep; "oh, no! I wouldn't treat a poor bird so.

I

gave wool the nest to line,

But the nest was none of mine.

Baa, baa!" said the sheep; "oh, no!

I wouldn't treat a poor bird so!"

"I would not rob a bird,"

Said little Mary Green;

"I think I never heard
Of anything so mean."

"It is very cruel too,"

Said little Alice Neal;

"I wonder if he knew

How sad the bird would feel!"

A little boy hung down his head,
And went and hid behind the bed;
For he stole that pretty nest,
From poor little yellow breast;
And he felt so full of shame,
He didn't like to tell his name.

WH

THE PETER-BIRD.

THEN summer's birds are bringing
Their clear, concerted singing,

Singing gladder, gladder, gladder in their glees;

When finches and the thrushes

Make vocal all the bushes,

And the lark his note of morning welcome frees I hear no meter sweeter

Than "Peter - Peter - Peter,"

That the Peter-bird is singing in my trees.

How good to lie and listen,
Where brooks in summer glisten,
As they ripple, ripple, ripple to the seas;
Where faintly in the pebbles

They play their pretty trebles

In the plaintive, sad, and tender minor keys; But they can play no meter

Like" Peter Peter Peter,"

That the Peter-bird is singing in my trees.

When softly at the nooning

I hear the clover crooning

Of its nectar, nectar, nectar, and the bees;
When corn a-field is drying,

And fading blades are flying
With a floating pennon-rustle in the breeze,
Oh, sweet it is, but sweeter

Is "Peter Peter Peter,"

That the Peter-bird is singing in my trees.

When summer's joy is over

And bees have robbed the clover, Leaving odor, only odor, to appease ; When red autumnal juices

Make music in their sluices

As the fruity currents gurgle from their lees; The wine-tide sings not sweeter

Than "Peter Peter Peter,"

That the Peter-bird is singing in my trees.

- Henry Thompson Stanton- Century, Aug. 1889.

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