ing to my room l opened me screen to 

 let him in, but this startled him and he 

 flew away. 



The sun had gone down by this time 

 and I supposed he had at last returned 

 to the nest. As I sat at the supper 

 table I heard him calling to me and 

 went outside. 



He was in a tree in a neighbor's yard, 

 but when he saw me he at once flew 

 down on my head, and it was comical 

 to see him try to express his joy. 



Alter that he spent his days among 

 the trees, but at sunset always came to 

 the house and slept in a box in my 

 room. 



Whenever he was hungry he would 

 come to the window and call for food. 



His favorite resting-place was on my 

 shoulder or head and he seemed to be 

 very fond of company. 



One morning I saw Jack and Jill fly 

 ing from tree to tree with him and that 

 is the last I ever saw of any of them. 



BIRDLAND SECRETS. 



SARA E. GRAVES. 



Tell me what the bluebird sings 

 When from Southland up he springs 

 Into March's frosty skies 

 And to our New England flies, 

 Where, upon some sunny morn 

 Hear we first his note lovelorn. 



Now he 'mong the maple flits, 

 Now upon a fencepost sits, 

 Lifting wings of heaven's own blue 

 As he warbles, clear and true, 

 Song so plaintive, soft and sweet, 

 All our hearts with welcome beat. 



What the message full he brings 

 When in March's ear he sings? 

 Tell me what our robins think 

 When our April airs they drink, 

 Following close in Bluebird's train 

 With their blither, bolder strain. 



Sit they high on maple tall 

 Chirping loud their earnest call, 

 Redbreasts glowing in the sun, 

 Then across the sward they run 

 Scampering briskly, then upright, 

 Flirt their tails and spring to flight. 



Or, when drops the light of day 

 Down the westward golden way, 

 Robin mounts the tallest branch 

 Touched by sunset's quivering lance; 

 Carols forth his evening tune 

 Blithe as Earth were in her June. 



Tell me what the sparrow says 

 In those first glad springtime days, 

 When the maples yield their sweet, 

 When Earth's waking pulses beat, 

 When the swollen streams and rills 

 Frolic down the pasture hills. 



Winter birds and squirrels then 

 Grow more lively in the glen, 

 And, when warmer airs arise, 

 Sparrow sings her sweet surprise 

 From the lilac bushes near, 

 Song of faith and hope and cheer. 



Tell me, when the longer train 

 Up from Southland sweeps again, 

 Filling fields and glens and woods- 

 Wildest, deepest solitudes 

 With more brilliant life and song, 

 Golden lyre and silver tongue, 

 Bells that ring their morning chimes 

 Wood nymphs voicing soothing rhymes 

 Stirring all the sun-filled air 

 With hymns of praise and love and 

 prayer. 



Tell me whence their motive power, 

 Tell me whence so rich a dower, 

 Tell me why are birds so gifted; 

 Whence their imprisoned spirits drifted; 

 Whither swells this tide of- love 

 Flooding all the air above? 

 Whither these enchantments tend? 

 A brief bird life is this its end? 



157 



