NATURE'S CHOIR. 



THE bird is your true poet ; I have seen him, 

 When the snow wrapped his seeds and not a crumb- 

 Was in his larder, perch upon a branch, 

 And sing from his brave heart a song of trust 

 In Providence, who feeds him though he sows not, 

 Nor gathers into barns. Whate'er his fears 

 Or sorrows be, his spirit bears him up. 

 Cares ne'er o'ermaster him, for 'tis his wont 

 To stifle them with music. Out of sight 

 He buries them to the depth of his sweet song, 

 And gives them a melodious sepulture." 



Anon. 



HEN the leaves turn yellow and 

 the summer is gone, and the 

 boisterous wind foretells the com- 

 ing of winter, the Robin, 



" The bird that comes about our doors 



When Autumn winds are sobbing," 

 perches on the water-barrel and 

 sings the summer dirge. His 

 clear, loud song is sweet and 

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