But scarcely had she placed The last soft feather on its ample floor, When wicked hands, or chance, again laid waste, And wrought the ruin o'er. But still her heart she kept, And toiled again; and last night, hearing calls, What truth is here, O man! Hath hope been smitten in its early dawn? -R. S. S. Andros. FEATHERED NAME-SPEAKERS. Do you see that bird on the apple-tree, As white with blossoms as it can be? Ask her name and she'll sing to thee- Lo, here comes another! What do What do you think? Blithely he whistles from morn till night; Timid is he and seldom in sight; Where do "Bob White!" Lo, there comes another! Where do you think And now it is night and the world is still; Who taught you, O birdies, to know so well Alas! we must bid each other farewell. Again we shall meet, though you'll go away : And whistle, "Bob White," while they're making the hay; Winter will silence the music of May. The Young Idea. THE BOBOLINK. BOBOLINK, that in the meadow, Or beneath the orchard's shadow, Keepest up a constant rattle Joyous as my children's prattle, Welcome to the north again ! Welcome to mine ear the strain, Welcome to mine eyes the sight Sweeter tones may weave the spell But the tropic bird would fail, When the ides of May are past, Filling youths' and maidens' dreams With mysterious, pleasing themes ; Floating in the fragrant air, Thou dost fill each heart with pleasure A single note so sweet and low, Forms the prelude; but the strain For the wild and saucy song Bobolink! still may thy gladness In summer, winter, fall, and spring. - Thomas Hill. FOR THE KINGFISHER. OR the handsome Kingfisher, go not to the tree, In the dry river rock he did never abide, And not on the brown heath all barren and wide. He lives where the fresh, sparkling waters are flowing, He lives in a hole that is quite to his mind, With the green mossy Hazel roots firmly entwined; There busily, busily, all the day long, He seeks for small fishes the shallows among ; Deep, deep in the bank, far retired, and alone. Then the brown Water-Rat from his burrow looks out, To see what his neighbor Kingfisher's about ; And the green Dragon-fly, flitting slowly away, O happy Kingfisher! what care should he know, SOME GOLDFINCHES. COMETIMES goldfinches one by one will drop But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek, Or perhaps, to show their black and golden wings, Were I in such a place, I sure should pray That naught less sweet might call my thoughts away Than the soft rustle of a maiden's gown Fanning away the dandelion's down. -John Keats. THE MOCKING-BIRD. ARLY on a pleasant day, EA In the poet's month of May, Field and forest looked so fair, Forth I walked where tangling grew |