Near the window wild birds fly, Trees are waving round; Fair things everywhere you spy Through the gla.s.s pane's mystery, Your small life's small bound: Nothing hinders your desire But a little gilded wire.

Like a human soul you seem Shut in golden bars: Placed amid earth's sunshine stream, Singing to the morning beam, Dreaming 'neath the stars; Seeing all life's pleasures clear,-- But they never can come near.

Never! Sing, bird-poet mine, As most poets do;-- Guessing by an instinct fine At some happiness divine Which they never knew.

Lonely in a prison bright Hymning for the world's delight.

Yet, my birdie, you're content In your tiny cage: Not a carol thence is sent But for happiness is meant-- Wisdom pure as sage: Teaching the pure poet's part Is to sing with merry heart.

So lie down, thou peevish pen; Eyes, shake off all tears; And, my wee bird, sing again: I'll translate your song to men In these future years.

"Howsoe'er thy lot's a.s.signed, Meet it with a cheerful mind."

MRS. DINAH MARIA (MULOCK) CRAIK.

WHO STOLE THE BIRD'S-NEST.

Te-whit! te-whit! te-whee!

Will you listen to me?

Who stole four eggs I laid, And the nice nest I made?

Not I, said the cow, moo-oo!

Such a thing I'd never do.

I gave for you a wisp of hay, And did not take your nest away.

Not I, said the cow, moo-oo!

Such a thing I'd never do.

Not I, said the dog, bow-wow!

I wouldn't be so mean as that, now, I gave hairs the nest to make, But the nest I did not take.

Not I, said the dog, bow-wow!

I wouldn't be so mean as that, now.

Not I, said the sheep, Oh no!

I wouldn't treat a poor bird so!

I gave the wool the nest to line, But the nest was none of mine.

Baa! baa! said the sheep; Oh no, I wouldn't treat a poor bird so.

I would not rob a bird, Said little Mary Green; I think I never heard Of any thing so mean.

'Tis very cruel, too, Said little Alice Neal; I wonder if she knew How sad the bird would feel?

A little boy hung down his head, And went and hid behind the bed, For he stole that pretty nest From poor little yellow-breast; And he felt so full of shame He didn't like to tell his name.

_Hymns for Mother and Children._

WHO STOLE THE EGGS?

"Oh, what is the matter with Robin, That makes her cry round here all day?

I think she must be in great trouble,"

Said Swallow to little Blue Jay.

"I know why the Robin is crying,"

Said Wren, with a sob in her breast; "A naughty bold robber has stolen Three little blue eggs from her nest.

"He carried them home in his pocket; I saw him, from up in this tree: Ah me! how my little heart fluttered For fear he would come and rob me!"

"Oh! what little boy was so wicked?"

Said Swallow, beginning to cry; "I wouldn't be guilty of robbing A dear little bird's-nest--not I."

"Nor I!" said the birds in a chorus: "A cruel and mischievous boy!

I pity his father and mother; He surely can't give them much joy.

"I guess he forgot what a pleasure The dear little robins all bring, In early spring-time and in summer, By the beautiful songs that they sing.

"I guess he forgot that the rule is, To do as you'd be always done by; I guess he forgot that from heaven There looks down an All-seeing Eye."

MRS. C. F. BERRY.

WHAT THE BIRDS SAY.

When they chatter together,--the robins and sparrows, Bluebirds and bobolinks,--all the day long; What do they talk of? The sky and the sunshine, The state of the weather, the last pretty song;

Of love and of friendship, and all the sweet trifles That go to make bird-life so careless and free; The number of grubs in the apple-tree yonder, The promise of fruit in the big cherry-tree;

Of matches in prospect;--how Robin and Jenny Are planning together to build them a nest; How Bobolink left Mrs. Bobolink moping At home, and went off on a lark with the rest.

Such mild little slanders! such innocent gossip!

Such gay little coquetries, pretty and bright!

Such happy love makings! such talks in the orchard!

Such chatterings at daybreak! such whisperings at night!

O birds in the tree-tops! O robins and sparrows!

O bluebirds and bobolinks! what would be May Without your glad presence,--the songs that you sing us, And all the sweet nothings we fancy you say?

CAROLINE A. MASON.

Sweet Mercy is n.o.bility's true badge.

_t.i.tus Andronicus_, Act 1, Sc. 2.

THE WREN'S NEST.