or really slept. At any rate, he remained 

 perfectly motionless for a long time, till 

 a door opened into the garden. This 

 disturbed him, and he fluttered across the 

 wall and out of sight. My attention was 

 diverted for a space of ten minutes or 

 more, and when I looked at the willow 

 again there sat a freshly dripping robin 

 in the very spot where the other had 

 made his toilet. It was impossible then 

 to tell whether it was the same bird or 

 not, he was so wet, yet it is not unusual 

 for them to begin a bath all over just 

 when it appears to have been finished and 

 forgotten. 



JNlow a dainty young redstart took a 

 very timid little bath which was also 

 disagreeably attended by some Johnny 

 Bull sparrows. This faint-hearted little 

 fellow hopped in and out of the pan five 

 or six times with a pretty flutter of the 

 wings each time. His coloring was em- 



phasized, and it was difficult to tell which 

 were his most fascinating points — olive- 

 green coat, silken white vest, pure yellow 

 trimmings, or that fan-tail of black and 

 yellow which he only closed in order 

 that he might again open it with all the 

 coquetry of a court lady. He did not 

 want his finery very wet. 



Meanwhile, two pigeons preened their 

 wet feathers on a neighboring roof, hav- 

 ing evidently found a bath elsewhere than 

 on the Catbird's premises, and Tilly sat 

 close by the old well, licking her silvery 

 paws and rubbing her face with them in 

 a graceful, dignified manner. When I 

 filled the two baths with fresh water she 

 immediately paused long enough to run 

 to one under the sassafras and thirstily 

 drink it almost dry, despite the fact that 

 the Catbird, who had not yet succeeded 

 in bathing, scolded her close overhead. 

 Elizabeth Nunemacher. 



SPRING FLOWERS 



The dogwood, white as drifted snow, 



Now blossoms in the sheltered wood ; 

 The winds its falling leaflets blow 



Like snowflakes o'er the hillside road. 



And violets push through waving grass 



Their dainty heads of tender blue ; 

 They bow beneath the wind's caress 



And pearly drops of shining dew. 



Like a pure white star the bloodroot peeps 

 Up through the rich brown leaf-mold, where 



The yellow dogtooth violet keeps 

 Its lily head bowed as in prayer. 



And bv the brook, where the moss bank dips, 

 With lighted torch in hand, Spring came, 



And crowned the pink azalea's tips 

 With a wealth of the glowing flame. 



— Chreswell J. Hunt. 



37 



