XVII. 

 CEDAR-TREE LITTLE FOLK. 



'T is there that the wild dove has her nest, 



And whenever the branches stir, 

 She presses closer the eggs to her breast, 



And her mate looks down on her. 



CLARE BEATRICE COFFEY. 



ONE of the voices that helped to make my 

 June musical, and one more constantly heard 

 than any other, was that of the 



" Mourning dove who grieves and grieves, 

 And lost ! lost ! lost ! still seems to say," 



as the poet has it. 



Now, while I dearly love the poets, and al- 

 ways long to enrich my plain prose with gems 

 from their verse, it is sometimes a little embar- 

 rassing, because one is obliged to disagree with 

 them. If they would only look a little into the 

 ways of birds, and not assert, in language so 

 musical that one can hardly resist it, -that 



" The birds come back to last year's nests," 



when rarely was a self-respecting bird known 

 to shirk the labor of building anew for every 

 family ; or sing, with Sill, 



