Now take a crumb or two,
And cheer thee up anew;
The pastures, bleak and sere,
In beauty will appear;

And the roaring northern blast
Be a memory of the past,
Whilst thou singest, singest

Thy old familiar song,

As the seasons roll along,
Robin, Robin!

Oh, thou❜lt be surpassing sweet,
With thy nimble little feet
Tripping lightly o'er the lawn

At the breaking of the dawn,
And "Good-morning, summer's coming."
Not a harbinger of spring,

However sweetly he may sing,

Can sing as thou singest, singest
Thy old familiar song,

As the seasons roll along,

Robin, Robin!

Henry Stevenson Washburn.

From "The Vacant Chair and Other Poems."

THE ENGLISH ROBIN.

SEE yon robin on the spray;

Look ye how his tiny form.
Swells, as when his merry lay

Gushes forth amid the storm.

Though the snow is falling fast,
Specking o'er his coat with white,-
Though loud roars the chilly blast,

And the evening's lost in night,

Yet from out the darkness dreary
Cometh still that cheerful note;
Praiseful aye, and never weary,

Is that little warbling throat.

Thank him for his lesson's sake,

Thank God's gentle minstrel there,
Who, when storms make others quake,
Sings of days that brighter were.

Harrison Weir.

THE BLUEBIRD.

WHEN winter's cold tempests and snows are no more,

WH Green meadows and brown furrow'd fields re-ap

pearing,

The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore,

And cloud-clearing geese to the lakes are a-steering;
When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing,
When red glow the maples, so fresh and so pleasing,
O then comes the bluebird, the herald of spring!
And hails with his warblings the charms of the season.

Then loud piping frogs make the marshes to ring;
Then warm glows the sunshine, and fine is the weather;
The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring,
And spicewood and sassafras budding together;

O then to your gardens ye housewives repair,

Your walks border up, sow and plant at your leisure;
The bluebird will chant from his box such an air,
That all your hard toils will seem truly a pleasure!

He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree,
The red flowering peach, and the apple's sweet blossoms;
He snaps up destroyers wherever they be,

And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms;

He drags the vile grub from the corn it devours,

The worm from the webs, where they riot and welter;
His song and his services freely are ours,

And all that he asks is in summer a shelter.

The plowman is pleased when he gleans in his train,
Now searching the furrows now mounting to cheer him ;
The gard'ner delights in his sweet, simple strain,
And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him ;
The slow ling'ring schoolboys forget they'll be chid,
While gazing intent as he warbles before them
In mantle of sky-blue, and bosom so red,
That each little loiterer seems to adore him.

When all the gay scenes of the summer are o'er,
And autumn slow enters, so silent and sallow,
And millions of warblers, that charm'd us before,
Have fled in the train of the sun-seeking swallow;
The bluebird, forsaken, yet true to his home,
Still lingers, and looks for a milder to-morrow,
Till, forced by the horrors of winter to roam,
He sings his adieu in a lone note of sorrow.

APRIL, EVER FRAIL AND FAIR.

T last young April, ever frail and fair,

AT

Wooed by her playmate with the golden hair, Chased to the margin of receding floods

O'er the soft meadows starred with opening buds,
In tears and blushes sighs herself away,

And hides her cheek beneath the flowers of May.

PRING! the beautiful Spring is coming,

SPRING! the beautiful this coes abe

humming,

And the fields are rich with the early flowers,
Beds of crocus and daisies white,

And, under the nodding hedgerow, showers
Of the ficary golden bright!

Come, come, let you and me

Go out, and the promise of Springtime see,

For many a pleasant nook I know,

Where the hooded arum and bluebell grow,

And crowds of violets white as snow ;

Come, come, let's go!

Let's go, for hark!

I hear the lark;

And the blackbird and the thrush on the hill-side tree

Shout to each other so merrily;

And the wren sings loud,

And a little crowd

Of gnats dance cheerily.

Come, come! come along with me,

For the tassels are red on the tall larch tree,

And in homesteads hilly,

The spathed daffodilly

Is growing in beauty for me and thee.

APRIL

APRIL.

PRIL cold with dropping rain
Willows and lilacs bring again,

The whistle of returning birds
And trumpet-lowing of the herds;
The scarlet maple-keys betray
What potent blood hath modest May;
What fiery force the earth renews,
The wealth of forms, the flush of hues ;
What joy in rosy waves outpoured,
Flows from the heart of love, the Lord.
- Ralph Waldo Emerson.

IN APRIL.

PRIL is here!

AP

Listen, a bluebird is caroling near!

Low and sweet is the song he sings,

As he sits in the sunshine with folded wings,
And looks from the earth that is growing green
To the warm blue skies that downward lean,
As a mother does, to kiss the child

That has looked up into her face and smiled.