THE ORIOLE'S NEST. 



Just over the road, where the world may see, 



A swinging nest hangs from a locust tree. 



The branch droops, a frail one, with leaf and flower, 



A fragrant place, truly, for birdies' bower. 



The white blossoms flutter, the cradle swings; 



The oriole mother's sweet love-call rings 



As, flying she darts in her open door 



And nestles, at dusk, by her treasures four. 



All carefully built in a hairy ball, 

 Gray-painted, soft lined, with a close knit wall, 

 The oriole nest is a work of art, 

 A thought of the Master's own tender heart. 

 The black and gold wings flicker bright about. 

 And ever the clear, liquid notes pipe out 

 As true to their lesson, the whole bird clan 

 Gives praise, w^orking aye to their Maker's plan. 



Oh, rough winds, when tempest-tossed trees bend low, 

 When gloomy clouds gather and wild storms blow. 

 Brush not in your swift flight this swaying nest 

 Where timid birds huddle to mother's breast! 

 Oh, hands rude and thoughtless, for this nest wait. 

 Until, with a satisfied song, each mate 

 And fluttering birdlings fly forth to seek 

 Another fair haven for breast and beak! 



Harriet L. Grove, Delaware, Ohio. 



