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Gliding at sunset in my boat, I hear the Veery's bubbling note; And a Robin, flying late, Sounds the home-call to his mate.
Then the sun sinks low In the western glow, And the birds go to rest. But hus.h.!.+
Far off sings the sweet Wood-Thrush.
He sings--and waits--and sings again, The liquid notes of that holy strain.
He ceases, and all the world is still: And then the moon climbs over the hill, And I hear the cry of the Whip-poor-will.
Tranquil, I lay me down to sleep, While the summer stars a vigil keep; And I hear from the Sparrow a gentle trill, Which means, "Good Night; Peace and Good Will."
MISS HARRIET E. PAINE.
LITTLE BROWN BIRD.
A little brown bird sat on a stone; The sun shone thereon, but he was alone.
"O pretty bird, do you not weary Of this gay summer so long and dreary?"
The little bird opened his black bright eyes, And looked at me with great surprise; Then his joyous song broke forth, to say, "Weary of what? I can sing all day."
_Posies for Children._
LIFE'S SIGN.
Wouldst thou the life of souls discern, Not human wisdom nor divine Helps thee by aught beside to learn, _Love_ is life's only sign.
KEBLE.
A BIRD'S MINISTRY.
From his home in an Eastern bungalow, In sight of the everlasting snow Of the grand Himalayas, row on row, Thus wrote my friend:-- "I had travelled far From the Afghan towers of Candahar, Through the sand-white plains of Sinde-Sagar;
"And once, when the daily march was o'er, As tired I sat in my tented door, Hope failed me, as never it failed before.
"In swarming city, at wayside fane, By the Indus' bank, on the scorching plain, I had taught,--and my teaching all seemed vain.
"No glimmer of light (I sighed) appears; The Moslem's Fate and the Buddhist's fears Have gloomed their wors.h.i.+p this thousand years.
"'For Christ and his truth I stand alone In the midst of millions: a sand-grain blown Against your temple of ancient stone
"'As soon may level it!'" Faith forsook My soul, as I turned on the pile to look; Then, rising, my saddened way I took
To its lofty roof, for the cooler air: I gazed, and marvelled;--how crumbled were The walls I had deemed so firm and fair!
For, wedged in a rift of the ma.s.sive stone, Most plainly rent by its roots alone, A beautiful peepul-tree had grown:
Whose gradual stress would still expand The crevice, and topple upon the sand The temple, while o'er its wreck should stand
The tree in its living verdure!--Who Could compa.s.s the thought?--The bird that flew Hitherward, dropping a seed that grew,
Did more to s.h.i.+ver this ancient wall Than earthquake,--war,--simoon,--or all The centuries, in their lapse and fall!
Then I knelt by the riven granite there, And my soul shook off its weight of care, As my voice rose clear on the tropic air:--
"The living seeds I have dropped remain In the cleft: Lord, quicken with dew and rain, _Then_ temple and mosque shall be rent in twain!"
MARGARET J. PRESTON.
OF BIRDS.
See, Christ makes the birds our masters and teachers! so that a feeble sparrow, to our great and perpetual shame, stands in the gospel as a doctor and preacher to the wisest of men.
MARTIN LUTHER.
BIRDS IN SPRING.
Listen! What a sudden rustle Fills the air!
All the birds are in a bustle Everywhere.
Such a ceaseless croon and twitter Overhead!
Such a flash of wings that glitter Wide outspread!
Far away I hear a drumming,-- Tap, tap, tap!
Can the woodp.e.c.k.e.r be coming After sap?
b.u.t.terflies are hovering over (Swarms on swarms) Yonder meadow-patch of clover, Like snow-storms.
Through the vibrant air a-tingle Buzzingly, Throbs and o'er me sails a single b.u.mble-bee.
Lissom swayings make the willows One bright sheen, Which the breeze puffs out in billows Foamy green.
From the marshy brook that's smoking In the fog I can catch the crool and croaking Of a frog.
Dogwood stars the slopes are studding, And I see Blooms upon the purple-budding Judas-tree.
Aspen ta.s.sels thick are dropping All about, And the alder-leaves are cropping Broader out; Mouse-ear tufts the hawthorn sprinkle, Edged with rose; The park bed of periwinkle Fresher grows.
Up and down are midges dancing On the gra.s.s: How their gauzy wings are glancing As they pa.s.s!
What does all this haste and hurry Mean, I pray-- All this out-door flush and flurry Seen to-day?
This presaging stir and humming, Thrill and call?
_Mean?_ It means that spring is coming; That is all!
MARGARET J. PRESTON.
THE CANARY IN HIS CAGE.
Sing away, ay, sing away, Merry little bird, Always gayest of the gay, Though a woodland roundelay You ne'er sung nor heard; Though your life from youth to age Pa.s.ses in a narrow cage.
