and eat half our peas a little later, yet 

 he is always welcome for the warmth 

 there is in his ruddy breast, and the hope 

 there is in his blithe song. 



For a few days robin and bluebird 

 quarrel as to the brightness of their re- 

 spective liveries, and the quality of their 

 song, then some warm morning a very 

 modest little bird perches upon a bar- 

 post and invites you to behold him, in 

 the most plaintive little song that ever 

 came from the throat of feathered crea- 

 ture. ** Phoebe, phcebe,'* he sings, over 

 and over again. " Phoebe, phoebe, see 

 me, see me." 



" Cheerup, cheerup, cheerup,'* replies 

 robin from the old elm. " You can't 

 sing a little bit. I would give up trying 

 if I were you.'* But the little stranger 

 keeps right on, unmindful of robin's scorn. 



" Phoebe, see me, see me." 



