open nests from a lack of suitable nest- 

 ing-places in cavities. 



The cry is described as "shrill and 

 disagreeable, a kind of grating, metallic 

 shriek." One call resembles the shrill 

 cry of a goose. The}- sometimes give 

 utterance to low conversational notes 

 while perched. 



It seems almost incredible that 

 scarcely more than half a centur}- has 



witnessed the passing of a once abun- 

 dant species of our native bird. Like 

 the bison, the paroquet has been swept 

 away by the rushing tide of progress, 

 leaving only fading memories where 

 once they were characteristic features 

 of the landscape. We may congratu- 

 late ourselves that there are few of our 

 birds and mammals that find it so im- 

 possible to survive the advance of civ- 

 ilization. 



WHAT THE WOOD FIRE SAID TO A LITTLE BOY. 



What said the wood in the fire 

 To the little boy that night. 

 The little boy of the golden hair, 

 As he rocked himselt in his little arm- 

 chair, 

 When the blaze was burning bright? 



The wood said: "See 



What they've done to me! 



I stood in the forest, a beautiful tree! 



And waved my branches from east to 



west; 

 And many a sweet bird built its nest 

 In my leaves of green. 

 That loved to lean 

 In springtime over the daisy's breast. 



"From the blossomy dells, 



Where the violet dwells. 



The cattle came with their clanging 



bells. 

 And rested under my shadows sweet; 

 And the winds that went over the clover 



and wheat, 

 Told me all that they knew 

 Of the flowers that grew 

 In the beautiful meadows that dreamed 



at my feet! 



"And the wild wind's caresses 



Oft rumpled my tresses; 



But, sometimes, as soft as a mother's 

 lip presses 



On the brow of the child of her bosom, 

 it laid 



Its lips on my leaves, and I was not 

 afraid. 



And I listened and heard 



The small heart of each bird. 



As it beat in the nests that their moth- 

 ers had made. 



"And in springtime sweet faces. 



Of myriad graces. 



Came beaming and gleaming from flow- 

 ery places. 



And under my grateful and joy-giving 

 shade, 



With cheeks like primroses, the little 

 ones played; 



And the sunshine in showers. 



Through all the bright hours. 



Bound their flowery ringlets with sil- 

 very braid. 



"And the lightning 



Came brightening. 



From storm skies, and frightening 



The wandering birds that were tossed 



by the breeze. 

 And tilted like ships on black, billowy 



seas; 

 But they flew to my breast. 

 And I rocked them to rest. 

 While the trembling vines clustered 



and clung to my knees. 



"But how soon," said the wood, 



"Fades the memory of good! 



For the forester came, with his axe 



gleaming bright. 

 And I fell like a giant all shorn of his 



might. 

 Yet still there must be 

 Some sweet mission for me. 

 For have I not warmed you and cheered 



you to-night?" 



So said the wood in the fire 

 To the little boy that night, 

 The little boy of the golden hair, 

 As he rocked himself in his little arm- 

 chair, 

 When the blaze was burning bright, 

 — Atlanta Constitution. 



173 



