On the seventh day, at noon, I 

 took his cage to the window and set 

 him free. He flew the length of the 

 house and settled on a rosebush at the 

 end of the porch, where he sat for some 

 time, peering about, with his little head 

 comically hoisting this side and that. 

 Presently, when I came to the window 

 to see if he were still there, I found he 

 had flown away; and though I thought 

 I could distinguish his particular 

 " cheep" several times afterwards, I saw 

 him no more that day. Nor did I ex- 

 pect to see him again. 



I missed him a great deal and was 

 surprised to find how fond of him I had 

 grown. Imagine my surprise and de- 

 light when I went out next morning to 

 feed the chickens to find little "Cheep- 

 er" there before me! He flew onto 

 the fence when he saw me, but soon 

 flew down again, and hopped about 



among the little chicks quite fearlessly. 

 I was afraid the big chickens would 

 step on him; and, sure enough, the 

 Bantam rooster «'/</ walk right over him, 

 but he just squawked and hopped away 

 without any apparent resentment. 



The next morning he was there again, 

 when I went out. This time he fol- 

 lowed a hen about, hopping along with 

 her little chicks as though he thought 

 himself one of them. He was such a 

 fluffy little fellow, and he did look so 

 tiny and cunning! 



Poor little motherless baby, trying to 

 find a mother in a big hen! That was 

 the last time I saw him. 



Only a despised little English spar- 

 row! Yet, little "Cheeper," you had 

 your mission in life. You made the 

 heart of one bird-lover more tender by 

 your helplessness, and your memory is 

 dear to her. 



THE HERMIT THRUSH. 



NELLY HART WOODWORTH. 



Does the thrush drink wild honey? a nectar distilled 

 From the flowers of the field, that his message is filled 

 With such sweetness? O'er the twilight 'tis ringing — 

 June's divinest refrain, 'tis a soul that is singing. 

 Oh, so trustfully sweet, rapture blended with pain, 

 Rings the silver bell softly, I hear it again. 

 And the wood is enchanted, uncertain it seems. 

 As some moment of waking, the dreams, oh the dreams! 



Does he bathe evermore in the miracle springs. 



That his wings and his heart are in rhythm when he sings? 



Tears moisten the harpstrings, they quiver with pain. 



Then the triumph, the peace but the finest souls gain — 



Earth's losses, its tears through the notes sweep along. 



The longings of earth find a voice in the song. 



Till outechoed by angels they find a release, 



To be silenced henceforth, merged in infinite peace. 



Will the spirit bird sing through the ages to come, 

 Or the soul take its flight and, still singing, go home. 

 And the world weep aghast when, the music withdrawn, 

 The lark still a wing tells the rapture of dawn? 



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