43 INDUSTRY 



a solitary tree shaded them. So far the and the whip-poor-will had ceased their 



harvest scene resembled the picnics we calls. 



enjoy to-day. In the heat of the day an What a change this century has 



hour was taken for rest. At mid-after- wrought! One man now accomplishes 



noon another lunch was served. as much as sixteen did in the early days. 



Then at sunset came the supper, only The self-binding harvester of to-day, 



after which, from early morn, the kitchen through the reaping machine, was of a 



stove was permitted to lose its blush ; and growth so slow that the efforts of a third 



the milking time, far into the starlight, of a century were required before the 



while the night hawk boomed, and the reaper was driven to the hillsides^but of 



rest for the day came after bob white this later. 



A CHARMING HOME. 



ANNA R. HENDERSON. 



Wodie and I in the strawberry bed, 

 Searching for strawberries juicy and red ; 

 Breathing the airs of a morning in spring. 

 Listening the notes that the meadow larks sing ; 

 Heart beats and pulse beats keeping in tune 

 With all that is lovely in beautiful June. 

 Sharp little twitters near by us we heard ; 

 Where was the haunt of the dear little bird? 

 Soon the wee nest and its nestlings we found, 

 Safe in a catnip bush, close to the ground ; 

 Home of the sparrow, whose chirruping brood 

 Kept their four yellow mouths open for food ; 

 By their fond mother unceasingly fed 

 With morsels of strawberry, fragrant and red. 

 "O, Mamma," said Wodie, "did ever you see 

 So tiny a nest in so tiny a tree? 

 And isn't it perfectly lovely to stay 

 In the spicy catnip leaves all day? 

 And whenever you wish for something to eat. 

 To dine on a slice of strawberry sweet? 

 To hear the father-bird singing a tune 

 In the old peach tree all the afternoon. 

 And to be shut out from the dew at night 

 By the touch of mother-wings, soft and light? 

 I think when these dear little lairdies stray 

 From their home in the catnip bush away, 

 Wherever their dear little forms may go, 

 In the summer's sun or the winter's snow, 

 They will say, as the old folks always do. 

 That their baby days were the best they knew." 



