LITERARY AND BIOGRAPHICAL. 



309 



The former captor started at once 

 for his big game, his assault watched 

 by six other robins and the Idler. A 

 comical charger young specklebreast 

 was, as he sturdily resumed his original 

 tactics of advance and retreat. At 

 length he ventured upon closer hand to 

 hand conflict, bestowing well-directed 

 blows upon the struggling cicada, each 

 blow climaxed by a frightened upward 

 hop with uplifted wings. 



By this time a brother robin, scent- 

 ing a feast, ran up to join the fray, 

 when, presto ! without warning, a bolt 

 from a clear sky shot down most liter- 

 ally — a blot of blue, — one hissing satir- 

 ical shriek, the snap of a big bill, and 

 away flew the robber — an impudent 

 jay — with the doomed cicada in his 

 beak. Startled though he was. the 



rightful owner quickly recovered him- 

 self and shot off in pursuit, only to 

 meet rout and mockery in the top of a 

 neighboring boxelder. 



But the second robin was so stunned 

 by the enemy's charge that for fully 

 two minutes he stood, or rather 

 crouched, bird-fashion, close to the 

 grass, head down in front, and flat- 

 tened, every muscle tense and not a 

 feather moving. At length, seeing no 

 new developments, he cautiously pulled 

 himself together and began to inspect 

 the scene of the struggle. Back and 

 forth across the spot he ran, examining 

 the clover as if he thought it might 

 hold some clew to the startling events 

 of the past ten minutes. Apparently 

 failing to satisfy himself as to the mys- 

 terv, he finally flew away. 



IlTERARY 



BIOGRAPHICAL 



WAITING. 



By John Burroughs, AVest Park, New York. 



Serene, I fold my hands and wait. 



Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea; 

 I rave no more 'gainst Time or Fate, 



For lo! my own shall come to me. 



I stay my haste,. I make delays, 

 For what avails this eager pace? 



I stand amid the eternal ways, 

 And what is mine shall know my face. 



Asleep, awake, by night or day, 



The friends I seek are seeking me; 



No wind can drive my bark astray, 

 Nor change the tide of destiny. 



What matter if I stand alone? 



I wait with joy the coming years; 

 My heart shall reap where it hath sown, 



And garner up its' fruits of tears. 



The waters know their own, and draw 

 The brook that springs in yonder heights; 



So flows the good with equal law 

 Unto the soul of pure delights. 



The stars' that come nightly to the sky; 



The tidal wave unto the sea; 

 Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high, 



Can keep my own from me. 



— Published by Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 

 Boston and New York. 



WORKING. 



By Edward F. Bigelow, Arcadia; Sound 

 Beach, Connecticut. 

 (With apologies to John Burroughs 

 "Waiting.") 

 Alert, I make my life advance, 



Against the wind, the tide, the sea, 

 I wait no more for Time or Chance, 

 By work I'll fetch my own to me. 



I make all haste, I shun delays', 



For much rewards this eager pace, 



I stand amid the eternal ways, 



And mine I'll force to know my face. 



Asleep, awake, by night or day, 



The work I seek is meeting me; 

 No wind shall drive my bark astray 

 Nor change the port I'm bound to see. 



What matter if I stand alone? 



I wait with joy the coming years; 

 My heart shall reap what hands have sown 



And garner fruits without the tears. 



The mill wheels know their own, and grind 

 By brooks that spring in yonder height, 



So work will win and ever find 



Success for him who strives with might. 



The stars their duty never shirk, 



The tidal wave uplifts the sea, 

 So sure shall I, by plans, by work, 



Collect my own right here to me. 



