The organ rolls down its great anthem, With the soul of a song it is blent; But for me, I am sick for the singing, Of one little song that is spent.

The voice of the preacher is gentle; "No sparrow shall fall to the ground;"

But the poor broken wing on the bonnet, Is mocking the merciful sound.

--_Selected._

HUNTING THE WILD.

One Christmas, over forty years ago, my grandfather sent to me from Colorado a real Indian bow and arrows. It was a beautiful bow with a sinew string and wrapped in the middle and at the ends with sinews. The arrow-heads were iron spikes, bound in place with wrapping of fine sinews. The eagle feathers' tips were also bound with sinews.

It was a beautiful, snow-clad Christmas morning, and I remember how I yearned to go with this bow and arrows into the cedar grove to shoot the birds feeding there. This yearning must have expressed itself in some way, for I distinctly remember how a man with my bow and arrows led the way, and I in restrained delight followed him to the cedar grove. I remember how he maneuvered among the trees, and with keen eyes watched for an opportunity to make a shot.

He stopped, whispered to me, pointed to a bird in the trunk of a cedar.

Raising the bow, it bent taut under his firm, cautious pull. "Whiz,"

went the arrow, and there, pinned to the tree with the iron spike, fluttered a hairy woodp.e.c.k.e.r. To my wondering child-mind it was a great feat--my inherent instinct for hunting the wild approved and applauded.

That very phase of human nature is what we are now trying to eliminate from the present and coming generation.

--Eugene Swope.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "HUNGRY HOLLOW."]

WREN NOTES.

FROM NATURE AND CULTURE.

We have grown to expect at least one wren's nest on our porch or elsewhere in our yard each year; so, as usual, we put our boxes this Spring with notices, figuratively: "For wrens only--no sparrows need apply."

Knowing Jenny's fastidious taste, we furnish several boxes, thus giving her a choice. There is but little we would not do to induce her to live in our neighborhood, and it would be a great disappointment to us if she would not accept one of our houses, rent free.

This year, 1912, she carried twigs to three different boxes before she settled down to business. When this occurred, to our amus.e.m.e.nt, she went to the other two boxes for twigs, bringing them to the chosen site, instead of getting them from the ground, which for obvious reasons would have been much easier. Mr. Wren is not so hard to suit.

Anything is good enough, in his estimation, much to the disgust of his spouse.

[Ill.u.s.tration: WE ARE SEVEN.]

One day he made bold to select a box and carried in a few twigs to lay the "cornerstone" of a structure. Soon Mrs. Wren came upon the scene and in unmistakable language told him what she thought of him. Still scolding, this Xantippe of birds threw out the material he had brought, and, meekly submitting, he accepted her choice of a new location.

We always have to reckon with the sparrows--"avian rats," as some one has aptly called them. We do our best in helping Jenny drive them away by emptying out the stuff they bring in, by shooting them away, and even by use of the air gun. When absent one day for several hours we found, upon our return, the following things in the box: a rusty nail, an old safety pin, a hairpin, an elastic fixture, besides the usual bits of gra.s.s, weeds, sticks, roots, etc.

After emptying this out, it gave Mrs. Wren her inning once more, and she improved the opportunity; for she built an unusually fine nest, which is not altogether apparent in this ill.u.s.tration. The box containing the nest was placed upon a ledge of the porch and so could be easily taken down for inspection.

The material first used in the nest was twigs found under a nearby plum tree. Then it was lined with gra.s.s, horse hair, a blue jay's feather, some hen's feathers, and some cottony material like lint. Jenny finally completed her boudoir by festooning a snake skin about it. When the nestlings began to walk about over the nest, this skin broke up into bits; so does not show in the picture.

This nest was begun May 4, and the first egg was laid May 12. One more egg was added each day until eight were counted. They began to hatch the 30th, thus celebrating Memorial Day. Seven eggs hatched and the little ones kept the old birds more than busy, early and late, feeding them.

First the tiniest little spiders and bugs were brought. Then came larger ones, and finally beetles, crickets, large spiders, etc., were dropped into the yawning mouths. So fast they grew, one could almost see the progress from day to day. They posed for this picture June 17, leaving the nest the 18th, and on the 19th the parent birds began their second nest in another box on the same porch.

The first egg was laid the 23rd, thus taking but four days in the construction of this nest, while the first required eight. As a matter of fact it was not so carefully made. This time only five eggs were laid, and at the present moment Mr. Wren is singing encouragement and appreciation to his brooding mate; and, although the thermometer registers 98 in the shade, his notes joyously ripple out loud and clear, not only to Jenny's delight, but to ours as well.

A COMPARISON.

I'd ruther lay out here among the trees, With the singing birds and the b.u.mble bees, A-knowing that I can do as I please, Than to live what folks call a life of ease-- Up thar in the city.

For I don't 'xactly understan'

Where the comfort is for any man, In walking hot bricks and using a fan, And enjoying himself as he says he can-- Up thar in the city.

It's kinder lonesome, mebbe, you'll say, A-livin' out here day after day, In this kinder easy careless way, But an hour out here's better'n a day-- Up thar in the city.

As for that, just look at the flowers aroun', A-peepin' their heads up all over the groun,'

And the fruit a-bendin' the trees 'way down; You don't find sech things as these in town-- Or, ruther, in the city.

As I said afore, sech things as these-- The flowers, the birds, and the b.u.mble bees, And a-livin' out here among the trees, Where you can take your ease and do 's you please-- Make it better'n in the city.

Now, all the talk don't 'mount to snuff 'Bout this kinder life a-being rough, And I'm sure it's plenty good enough, And 'tween you and me, 'taint as tough-- As livin' in the city.

--_Selected._

"The woods were made for hunters of dreams, The streams for fishers of song; To those who hunt thus, go gunless for game, The woods and the streams belong."

[Ill.u.s.tration: A SOLITARY GIANT THAT WILL SOON DISAPPEAR.]

DAME NATURE'S RECIPE (APRIL).

Take a dozen little clouds And a patch of blue; Take a million raindrops, As many sunbeams, too.

Take a host of violets, A wandering little breeze, And myriads of little leaves Dancing on the trees.

Then mix them well together, In the very quickest way, Showers and sunshine, birds and flowers, And you'll have an April day.

--_Selected._