--_Selected._

THEY'LL COME AGAIN.

They'll come again to the apple tree, Robin and all the rest; When the orchard branches are fair to see In the snow of the blossoms dressed, And the prettiest thing in the world will be The building of the nest.

A PLUMP LITTLE GIRL AND A THIN LITTLE BIRD.

A plump little girl and a thin little bird Were out in the meadow together.

"How cold that poor little bird must be Without any clothes like mine," said she, "Although it is sunshiny weather!"

"A nice little girl is that," piped he, "But, oh, how cold she must be! For, see, She hasn't a single feather!"

So each shivered to think of the other poor thing, "Although it is sunshiny weather!"

--_M. M. Dodge._

HOW THE WOODp.e.c.k.e.r KNOWS.

How does he know where to dig his hole, The woodp.e.c.k.e.r there on the elm tree hole?

How does he know what kind of a limb To use for a drum, and to burrow in?

How does he find where the young grubs grow-- I'd like to know?

The woodp.e.c.k.e.r flew to a maple limb, And drummed a tattoo that was fun for him, "No breakfast here! It's too hard for that."

He said, as down on his tail he sat, "Just listen to this: rrrr rat-rat-tat."

Do you know when you wound any dear little bird, Or take from its home-nest another, That the cries of their anguish in heaven are heard, That G.o.d pities those birds and their mother?

Do you know the same G.o.d made the birds and the boys, And both for the very same reason, That each life should be bright with its homes and its joys, For each in its measure and season?

Do you know if you hark to the song in the air, So sweet in the freshness of morning, That the birds seem to sing, "We will trust to your care To keep us from danger and mourning?"

Do you, if you'd listen with soul and with heart, You never would ruffle a feather Of the dear little birds that make our glad world a part, For all are G.o.d's children together?

THE BOY'S PROTEST.

When a fellow knows every bird's nest In the fields for miles around, Where the squirrels play in the sunshine, Where the prettiest flowers are found; When he knows a pair of robins That will fly to his hands for crumbs, He hates to be penned in a school-room, And he's glad when Sat.u.r.day comes.

There's a bee-tree on the hillside, But I'll not tell any one where; There's a school of trout in the mill-stream, And I want to go fishing there.

I know where an oriole's building, And a log where a partridge drums, And I'm going to the woods to see them, As soon as Sat.u.r.day comes.

They shouldn't keep school in the springtime, When the world is so fresh and bright, When you want to be fishing and climbing, And playing from morn till night.

It's a shame to be kept in the school-room, Writing and working out sums; All week it's like being in prison, And I'm glad when Sat.u.r.day comes.

--_New York Independent._

[Ill.u.s.tration: AN ANTWERP SCENE.]

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE ORIOLE'S SONG.

Tangled and green the orchard way, Breath of blossoms, and waft of breeze; Dew-wet vistas of breaking day, Drifted snow on the drooping trees.

Through branching bloom, and mist of green, Now here, now there, upon the wing, Flame of oriole faintly seen-- Vision fair of the winsome spring.

A low-drawn cadence, thrilling, low, A call, a charm unto the ear; A forest brook in golden flow, A love song to the waking year.

And all the gladness of a young May Is touching with pathos at the strain; The melting music of the lay Our heart's deep secrets wakes again.

--_Sheila._

THE RED-HEADED WOODp.e.c.k.e.r.

BY FLORENCE MERRIAM BAILEY.

The National a.s.sociation of Audubon Societies Educational Leaflet No.

43.

The Woodp.e.c.k.e.rs are a band of foresters most of whom spend their lives saving trees. Many of them do their work hidden in the dark forests, but the Red-heads hunt largely out in plain sight of pa.s.sers-by. Why?

Because, while they devour enough enemies of the trees to deserve the name of foresters, they are particularly fond of vegetable foods and large beetles found in the open.