early morning to my favorite resort for 

 studying birds in the edge of town. I 

 have also seen it in my garden. Its 

 honey-like song, so full of plaintive 

 sweetness, wins for it many friends. So 

 does that brilliant red spot on the breast 

 of the male. When I get a good view of 

 that spot with the sun shining on it I 

 think there is no beauty spot on any of 

 our birds that quite equals it. I saw 

 two of the males fighting one day, and 

 I could imagine that they had clawed 

 each other's breast till the blood had 

 flowed out and stained the feathers a 

 crimson color. One day I saw one hop- 

 ping on a railroad bridge just as the 

 English sparrow does at times. It bound- 

 ed along as though its legs were made of 

 stiff rubber. Some birds walk, some 

 run, some hop and some tumble along 

 as though badly hurt. So did the mourn- 

 ing dove that flew from its nest when I 

 came too near and tumbled and flopped 



along the ground for a long ways to 

 draw me away from the nest. 



The cardinal, or red bird, is scarce 

 where I live. I saw none the first two 

 years that I was looking for birds. In 

 fact, I had never seen one except in a 

 cage. Or if I saw one in my pre-bird 

 loving days I do not remember it. I 

 heard last year that one had been seen 

 near my home. Several persons told 

 me of it. Day after day I looked for 

 it in vain. Finally one morning as I was 

 out early looking for birds the glorious 

 pair, male and female, flashed into view. 

 I saw them with my naked eye and also 

 studied them with my glass. That was 

 a red-letter (red-bird) day in my obser- 

 vation of birds. People who* live where 

 certain beautiful birds are very common 

 do not realize how much it means to see 

 one of them in a region where they are 

 scarce. The same is true of other beau- 

 tiful things. 



Roselle Theodore Cross. 



IN NATURE'S REALM. 



A warm breeze blows 



Where the daisy grows 

 And how fair and soft is the daisy's face, 

 As it peeps from its frill of snowy lace, 

 As it bows to the grass with tender grace, 

 Where the warm breeze blows ! 



Far, far above 



Flies a blue-winged dove. 

 He has never seen the daisy so fair, 

 He loves the sky and the white clouds there, 

 In a world free from sorrow's care- 

 Far, far above. 



In valley deep, 



Where the fire-flies sleep, 

 Over the stones the little brook flows ; 

 Naught of the daisy or dove he knows— 

 His life is the song he sings as he goes 

 In the valley deep. 



■Tac Lowell. 



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