The blackbird's nest, of grass and mud,

In bush and bank is found;

The lapwing's darkly spotted eggs
Are laid upon the ground.

The magpie's nest is girt with thorns
In leafless tree or hedge;

The wild duck and the water-hen

Build by the water's edge.

Birds build their nests from year to year,
According to their kind,—

Some very neat and beautiful,
Some easily designed.

The habits of each little bird,
And all its patient skill,
Are surely taught by God himself
And ordered by his will.

THE CUNNING OLD CROW.

On the limb of an oak sat a cunning old crow,
And chatted away with glee,

As he saw the old farmer go out to sow,
And he cried, "It's all for me!

"Look, look, how he scatters his seeds around; How thoughtful he is of the poor!

If he'd empty it down in a pile on the ground, I could find it much better, I'm sure!

"I've learned all the tricks of this wonderful man, Who has such regard for the crow

That he lays out his grounds in a regular plan, And covers his corn in a row.

"The man has a very great fancy for me;
He tries to entrap me enough,

But I measure his distance as nicely as he,
And when he comes near, I am off."

THE SNOW-BIRD'S SONG.

The ground was all covered with snow one day, And two little sisters were busy at play, When a snow-bird was sitting close by on a tree, And merrily singing his chick-a-dee-dee; Chick-a-dee-dee, chick-a-dee-dee, And merrily singing his chick-a-dee-dee. He had not been singing that tune very long, Ere Emily heard him, so loud was his song; "Oh, sister, look out of the window," said she, "Here's a dear little bird singing chick-a-dee-dee; Chick-a-dee-dee, chick-a-dee-dee,

Here's a dear little bird singing chick-a-dee-dee.

"Oh, mother, do get him some stockings and shoes,
And a nice little frock, and a hat if he choose;
I wish he'd come into the parlor and see

How warm we would make him, poor chick-a-dee-dee ;
Chick-a-dee-dee, chick-a-dee-dee,

How warm we would make him, poor chick-a-dee dee."
"There is One, my dear child, though I cannot tell who,
Has clothed me already, and warm enough too;
Good morning !-oh, who are so happy as we?"
And away he went, singing his chick-a-dee-dee;
Chick-a-dee dee, chick-a-dee-dee,

And away he went, singing his chick-a-dee-dee.

HEIGH-HO!

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups,

Fair yellow daffodils stately and tall,

When the wind wakes, how they rock in their grasses,
And dance with the cuckoo-buds, slender and small;
Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses,
Eager to gather them all.

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups,

Mother shall thread them a daisy chain, Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow

That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain; Sing, "Heart thou art wide, though the house be but narrow, Sing once, and sing it again."

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups,

Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend at thy bow;

A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters,

And haply one musing doth stand at her prow;
Oh, bonny brown sons, and oh, sweet little daughters,
Maybe he thinks on you now.

Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups,

Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall,

A sunshiny world, full of laughter and leisure,

And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall, Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its measure God that is over us all!

SELF-ESTEEM.

A plump little robin flew down from the tree,
To hunt for a worm which he happened to see.
A frisky young chicken came scampering by
And gazed at the robin with wondering eye.

Said the chick, "What a queer-looking chicken is that;
Its wings are so long and its body so fat!"

While the robin remarked loud enough to be heard! "Dear me! an exceedingly strange looking bird!"

"Can you sing?" robin asked, and the chicken said "No," But asked in its turn if the robin could crow.

So the bird sought a tree and the chicken a wall,
And each thought the other knew nothing at all.
SING A SONG TO ME.

Little robin in the tree, sing a song to me.
Sing about the roses on the garden wall,
Sing about the birdies on the tree-top tall.
Little lark up in the sky, sing a song to me.
Sing about the cloud-land, far off in the sky;
When you go there calling, do your children cry?
Tiny tomtit in the hedge, sing a song to me.
Sing about the mountain, sing about the sea,
Sing about the steamboats, is there one for me?
Sooty blackbird in the field, sing a song to me,
Sing about the farmer, planting corn and beans,
Sing about the harvest—I know what that means.

BIRD TRADES.

The swallow is a mason,

And underneath the eaves
He builds a nest and plasters it
With mud and hay and leaves.
Of all the weavers that I know,
The oriole is the best;

High on the branches of the tree
She hangs her cosy nest.

The woodpecker is hard at work-
A carpenter is he—

And you may hear him hammering,
His nest high up a tree.

Some little birds are miners;

Some build upon the ground;

And busy little tailors too,

Among the birds are found.

144. THE SEMINOLE'S DEFIANCE.

G. W. PATTEN.

Blaze, with your serried columns! I will not bend the knee;
The shackle ne'er again shall bind the arm which now is free!
I've mailed it with the thunder, when the tempest muttered low,
And where it falls, ye well may dread the lightning of its blow.
I've scared you in the city; I've scalped you on the plain;
Go, count your chosen where they fell beneath my leaden rain!
I scorn your proffered treaty; the pale-face I defy;

Revenge is stamped upon my spear, and "blood" my battle-cry!

Some strike for hope of booty; some to defend their all;—
I battle for the joy I have to see the white man fall.

I love, among the wounded, to hear his dying moan,
And catch, while chanting at his side, the music of his groan.
Ye've trailed me thro' the forest; ye've track'd me o'er the stream;
And struggling thro' the Everglades your bristling bayonets gleam.
But I stand as should the warrior, with his rifle and his spear;
The scalp of vengeance still is red, and warns you: Come not here!
Think ye to find my homestead?—I gave it to the fire.
My tawny household do ye seek?—I am a childless sire.
But, should ye crave life's nourishment, enough I have and good;
I live on hate, 'tis all my bread; yet light is not my food.
I loathe you with my bosom! I scorn you with mine eye!
And I'll taunt you with my latest breath, and fight you till I die!
I ne'er will ask for quarter, and I ne'er will be your slave!
But I'll swim the sea of slaughter till I sink beneath its wave!

145.-THE MAYFLOWER.

EDWARD EVERETT.

Methinks I see it now, that one solitary, adventurous vessel, the Mayflower of a forlorn hope, freighted with the prospects of a future state, and bound across the unknown sea. I behold it pursuing with a thousand misgivings, the uncertain, the tedious voyage. Suns rise and set, and weeks and months pass, and winter surprises them on the deep, but brings them not the sight of the wished-for shore. I see them now, scantily supplied with provisions, crowded almost to suffocation in their ill-stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a circuitous route;-and now driven in fury before the raging tempest, on the high and giddy waves. The awful voice of the storm howls through the rigging. The laboring masts seem straining from their base;-the dismal sound of the pumps is heard ;the ship leaps, as it were, madly from billow to billow;-the ocean breaks, and settles with engulfing floods over the floating deck, and beats with deadening weight against the staggering vessel. I see them escape from these perils, pursuing their all but desperate undertaking, and landed at last, after a five months' passage, on the ice-clad rocks of Plymouth-weak and weary from the voyage-poorly armed, scantily provisioned, depending on the charity of their ship-master for a draught of beer on board, drinking nothing but water on shore-without shelter-without means-surrounded by hostile tribes.

Shut now the volume of history, and tell me, on any prin

ciple of human probability, what shall be the fate of this handful of adventurers. Tell me, man of military science, in how many months were they all swept off by the thirty savage tribes, enumerated within the early limits of New England? Tell me, politician, how long did this shadow of a colony, on which your conventions and treaties had not smiled, languish on the distant coast? Student of history, compare for me the baffled projects, the deserted settlements, the abandoned adventurers of other times, and find the parallel of this. Was it the winter's storm, beating upon the houseless heads of women and children; was it hard labor and spare meals; was it disease; was it the tomahawk; was it the deep malady of a blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart, aching, in its last moments, at the recollection of the loved and left, beyond the sea;-was it some, or all of these united, that hurried this forsaken company to their melancholy fate? And is it possible that neither of these causes, that not all combined, were able to blast this bud of hope? Is it possible that, from a beginning so feeble, so frail, so worthy, not so much of admiration as of pity, there has gone forth a progress so steady, a growth so wonderful, a reality so important, a promise, yet to be fulfilled, so glorious?

146. SORROW FOR THE DEAD.

WASHINGTON IRVING.

The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal, every other affliction to forget; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open; this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother who would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang? Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but to lament? Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns? Who, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most loved-when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portals-would accept of consolation that must be bought by forgetfulness?

No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection, when the sudden anguish