How civilly he beckons in The busy Mrs. Bee; And she tells her store of gossiping All joy — all mirth - all mirth- no carking care, No worldly woe has he; Alack! I wish my lot it were To live as happily! -L. A. Twamley. THE SONG IN THE STORM. Trains, but on a dripping bough IT A little bird sings clear and sweet,- The wind, up-rising, stirs the tree, And fast with silver tears it weeps; Pipes with his tender throat, and keeps There swings his pretty nest below; His mate sits listening to his song; 'Tis love that makes her bosom glow, 'Tis love that whispers all day long 66 'Sleep, sleep, my nestlings, and grow strong!" Ah, dreary sky, and dripping tree, And wind that sobbest in the wood, Know well, if anywhere love be, She hath the sunshine in her hood; - James Buckham-Youth's Companion I THE GROUND LAUREL. LOVE thee, pretty nursling Of vernal sun and rain; For thou art Flora's firstling, When far away I found thee, The chilling blast blew round thee, And thou alone wast hiding The massy rocks between, Where, just below them gliding, The Merrimac was seen. And while my hand was brushing Thou didst reward my ramble When, over brake and bramble, I sought thy lone retreat. -Miss H. F. Gould. A BIRD'S NEST. VER my shaded doorway, OVE Two little brown-winged birds Have chosen to fashion their dwelling, And utter their loving words. All day they are going and coming Their necks are changeful and shining, I scatter crumbs on the doorsteps, "Sweetest, sweet, sweet, O sweet!" What if the sky is clouded? What if the rain comes down? "Sweetest, sweet, sweet, O sweet!" Dear little brown-winged birds, Hidden in these soft words, Which always, in shine or shadow, So lovingly you repeat Over, and over, and over, "Sweetest, sweet, sweet, O sweet!" L BROTHER ROBIN. ISTEN! in the April rain, Brother Robin's here again: Songs like showers come and go; He is house-building, I know. Though he finds the old pine-tree He has neither grief nor care; If one nest is blown away, Fields are full of sticks and hay. Though old mousing puss last year, And he almost died of fright, That is all forgotten quite. -Mrs. Anderson. A THE CHIMNEY NEST. DAINTY, delicate swallow-feather Is all that we now in the chimney trace Of something that, days and days together, With twittering bird-notes filled the place. Where are you flying now, swallow, swallow? Whose wings to strength in the chimney grew? Deep and narrow, and dark and lonely, The sooty place that you nested in ; Over you one blue glimmer only,- This is certain, that, somewhere or other, |