48 



INDUSTRY 



a solitary tree shaded them. So far the 

 harvest scene resembled the picnics we 

 enjoy to-day. In the heat of the day an 

 hour was taken for rest. At mid-after 

 noon another lunch was served. 



Then at sunset came the supper, only 

 after which, from early morn, the kitchen 

 stove was permitted to lose its blush ; and 

 the milking time, far into the starlight, 

 while the night hawk boomed, and the 

 rest for the day came after bob white 



and the whip-poor-will had ceased their 

 calls. 



What a change this century has 

 wrought ! One man now accomplishes 

 as much as sixteen did in the early days. 

 The self-binding harvester of to-day, 

 through the reaping machine, was of a 

 growth so slow that the efforts of a third 

 of a century were required before the 

 reaper was driven to the hillsides but of 

 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 birdies 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." 



