scantily lined with grass blades or stems, 

 but, judging from their usual appearance 

 and the exposed situation in which the 

 eggs are often found, I doubt if the male 

 exerts himself when constructing their 

 domicile. Nevertheless he sits patiently 

 upon the eggs until three weeks have 

 elapsed, when the young leave the shell 

 to follow their father about in search 

 of food. 



The little fellows are chestnut-brown, 

 streaked with a darker shade. 



In the meantime the females have con- 

 gregated in small groups and may be 

 seen running about the water margin or 



swimming buoyantly upon the tranquil 

 surface of pond or lagoon. These birds 

 excel other waders in swimming, because 

 their toes are scalloped, or semipalmated, 

 and well adapted for such purposes. 



Twenty years ago Illinois was a favor- 

 ite summer home for the Wilson's Pha- 

 larope, but they are becoming scarce, and 

 from what I can learn, the bird is now 

 regarded as a rare breeder east of the 

 Mississippi River, except perhaps in Wis- 

 consin, where they still gather during 

 June to rear their young around the bor- 

 ders of isolated lakes. 



Gerard Alan Abbott. 



JACK FROST. 



Jack Frost is a sly old fellow. 



He always comes in the night 

 And spreads o'er the landscape and windows 



A covering of sparkling white. 

 An artist is he, so they tell me, 



Most wonderful patterns he's wrought 

 On the grass blades, the sidewalks, the fences. 



With a brush he from fairyland brought. 



He's an expert, too, I can tell you, 



No laggard is he, let me say, 

 When the sun goes down and the darkness 



Steals quietly over the way 

 He comes, and when no one can see him, 



The desolate country about 

 He changes, as if by magic, 



Not a bramble or weed leaves out. 



And the day, when it dawns in its splendor, 



Looks down on a crystalized land, 

 While the sun peeping o'er the horizon 



Winks at the Frost King's plan, 

 For he knows if he smiles on the landscape, 



As he speeds on his course through the day, 

 All this beautiful work done in darkness 



Will vanish quickly away. 



— Addie E. Burr. 



219 



