again, now in another key, and with no 

 better success in the final than in his 

 first effort. So he starts again with a 

 variation, this time striking an initial 

 note higher than before. Then he 

 makes another attempt; but still he 

 seems dissatisfied and, after a short 

 rest, three tiny high notes come from 

 his throat, full of perfect melody, as 

 simple as that of the chickadee." 



The bird is a transcendentalist, ever 

 attempting what he cannot satisfactor- 

 ily accomplish, but failing, only to de- 

 light us with the strange sweetness of 

 the imperfect performance. The high- 

 est form of bird-music is unquestion- 

 ably revealed in the songs of the 



thrushes. Here we have not only a 

 simple fundamental rule, amply dem- 

 onstrated, but also a partially devel- 

 oped series of musical ideas, strung to- 

 gether with a well chosen relationship. 

 Of course, musically considered, the 

 development of the melody and the 

 connection of the phrases are more or 

 less imperfect; but that does not mat- 

 ter. The truth is, the bird is an accom- 

 plished singer who cares less for con- 

 ventional rules than he does for the es- 

 sence, or the soul of the music; but 

 above all he succeeds in inspiring his 

 listener. What more, may I ask, could 

 be expected of a musician? — School 

 Journal. 



STORY OF A NEST. 



ANNA R. HENDERSON. 



Far away in the beautiful land of Brazil, 



Where the birds are all singing o'er valley and hill. 



Two little children walked out 'neath the trees, 



Talking in musical Portuguese; 



And if you will listen to what I say, 



I'll tell you in English their words that day. 



''Sister," said Manuel, "often I've heard. 



That the trees scarce have room for the nest of each bird; 



For this is the land of these beautiful things, 



And the air seems alive with their songs and their wings; 



And I think that 1 know of a little bird breast. 



Which was puzzled and troubled for place for a nest." 



"Now, brother," said Lena, "don't tell me a word, 



Let me hunt for the nest of this crowded out bird," 



So away they went roving o'er hill and through dell; — 



Of the nests that they found 'twould take hours to tell. 



There were nests in the orange trees, blossoming white, 



There were nests in the coffee trees, glossy and bright, 



There were nests in the hedges, the bu.shes and grass. 



In the dark, hanging vines, by each roadside and pas?. 



There were blue eggs and speckled eggs, brown eggs and white. 



And yellow throats opening with chirpings of fright. 



"Search no longer," said Manuel, " 'mid bushes and trees, 



'Tis a stranger place, sister, than any of these." 



"I give up," said Lena, a shade on her brow, 



"Come, hasten, dear Manuel, I'll follow you now." 



Then away to the garden the little feet sped, 



And he showed her the nest in a big cabbage head! 



