MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS. 319 



Abl wbat would the world be to u3 



If the children were no more ? 

 We should dread the desert behind us 



Worse than the dark before. 



What the leaves are to the forest, 



With the light and air for food, 

 Ere their sweet and tender juices 



Have been hardened into wood, 



That to the world is children ; 



Through them it feels the glow 

 Of a brighter and sunnier climate 



Than reaches the trunks below. 



Come to me, O ye children ! 



And whisper in my ear 

 What the birds and winds are singing 



In your sunny atmosphere. 



For what are all our contrivings, 



And the wisdom of our books. 

 When compared with your caresses, 



And the-gladness of your looks? 



Ye are better than all the ballads 



That ever were sung or said ; 

 For ye are the living poems. 



And all the rest are dead. 



And now let us listen to the birds; and while in your imagination 

 you hear the glorious song of the nightingale and catch the clear notes 

 of our pets, the canaries, not to mention that imitative singer the 

 mocking bird, let me plead in favor of the feathered tribe. But first 

 let the memory assist the eye to gaze upon the perfect symmetry, the 

 harmony of color, the brilliant plumage of these, our little friends. 



The truth of the familiar quotation, "Music hath charms to soothe 

 the savage breast," has often been verified. Where can we find more 

 delightful music than the melody which wells from the tiny throats of 

 many birds besides those I have mentioned ? 



A wise and good Father has given them to us to exert a refining 

 influence over us, to charm us with their sweet notes, and to inspire 

 us by their example. Their cheerful patience in adversity is something 

 to be copied by us. Think of the hundreds of little captives confined 

 to the narrow limits of a cage for life, that gladden our lives daily by 

 their sweet song. 



Hark! 'tis the thrush, undaunted, undeprest 



By twilignt premature of cloud and rain ; 

 Nor does that roaring wind deaden his strain 



Who carols thinking of his love and nest, 



And seems, as m^re incited, still more bleat. 



