ing into plain sight and chirping and 

 singing; but just stop to ogle him with 

 your glass and see how quickly he will 

 dart away or esconce himself behind a 

 clump of foliage, uttering a protest which 

 seems to say, "Why doesn't that old fel- 

 low go about his own business !" 



If in some way the American house- 

 finch could be incluced to come east, and 

 the English sparrow could be given 

 papers of extradition, the exchange would 

 be a relief and benefit to the whole coun- 

 try. Leander S. Keyser. 



THE THRUSH'S SOLO. 



There's a robin's invitation 



And a bluebird's message sweet, 



Bidding us to Forest City 



With its crooked moss-grown street; 



Feathered folks and folks in ermine 

 Own the city with its trees, 



Own the brooks and own the berries, 

 Own the dewdrops and the breeze. 



There, to-day, there was a concert 



In a snowy elder bush, 

 Opened with a thrilling solo 



By a prima-donna thrush. 



When the sweet brown-breasted singer 

 Hushed the wonder of her song, 



From her listeners rose an encore 

 Echoing the hills along; 



Tambourines the brooks were shaking, 

 Clapped the palms on every oak 



And from old and trained musicians 

 Warbled rounds of music broke. 



Winds that held their breath to listen 

 Swept adown the vine-clad rooms, 



Crowned the little prima-donna 

 With soft-shaken elder blooms. 



Mrs. A. S. Hardy. 



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