age I had sent to sundry mjagazine edi- 

 tors. Alas ! they all had come back to 

 me with an unfailing regularity, but 

 cheered by my tiny neighbor's example, 

 I wrote on as he sang on — for the mere 

 joy of it. 



I was writing on late one Saturday 

 evening when I heard a faint cry of dis- 

 tress, and a frightened fluttering of 

 wings. I went to the gable, and looked 

 out. The wide horizon of ugly roofs 

 and chimney-pots lay softened and pic- 

 turesque in the bright moonlight. There 

 was nothing visible which might explain 

 the terror of m}' little neighbor behind 

 the shutter. I went back to my desk, 

 and again I heard the frightened flut- 

 tering of wings and the tiny cry for 

 help. 



Fetching my candle I carefully exam- 

 ined the nest. I saw the round, brown 

 head and bright eyes regarding me im- 

 ploringlv and I could think of nothing 

 better than to loosen the shutter a bit 

 while I braced the mass of straw and 

 feathers carefully against the side of the 

 house, in order that all that intricate la- 

 bour of its architecture might not be 

 Avasted. The heavy shutter swung out 



into the night, and suddenly the bird 

 spread his wings and attempted to fly 

 away. He fell down against the house, 

 and in the clear moonlight I saw that his 

 feet had become inextricably entangled 

 in the long, blue, rose-sprinkled ribbon 

 which he had stolen to grace his home. 



He lay quiescent in my hand, a soft lit- 

 tle ball of fluff, after I had pulled him up 

 from his perilous position. He seemed 

 to divine my desire to help him, and to 

 trust me. Even after I had cut the rib- 

 bon from his slender legs, he remained 

 peacefully resting in the hollow of my 

 hand. 



"The way of the transgressor is al- 

 ways hard," I said to him, severely. 

 "Now, if you had not stolen that child's 

 ribbon you would not have got yourself 

 into this pickle. It certainly ought to 

 teach you a lesson." 



But evidently this was not the kind of 

 comfort that he expected, for before I 

 could finish giving him all the good ad- 

 vice I intended, he had poised himself 

 delicately on his little, gray wings, and 

 flown out of the window, into the beau- 

 tiful, moonlit night. 



Sara Bulkley Rogers. 



THE SILVER POPLAR. 



Have you not marked the poplar in the wind 

 Change in a moment, its plain robe of green. 

 For one of mingled pearl and moonlight sheen, — 

 By sudden stress of some wide-wandering breeze, 

 Made loveliest of all the roadside trees? 



And men there are, akin to this same tree — 

 We scarcely note them as we come and go, 

 But ah, when gales of Joy or Sorrow blow. 

 Transfigured they stand forth, so dear, so kind, — 

 Have you not marked the poplar in the wind? 



— Lulu Whedon Mitchell. 



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