the pretty blue-green eggs were nicely 

 laid, everybody came to pick syringas. 

 Every time a syringa was picked, over 

 toppled the nest. Day after day I right- 

 ed it. I threatened and scolded and 

 stood guard with a club. But at last 

 the eggs lay broken on the ground. Mrs. 

 Cat-Bird concluded that syringas had 

 suddenly been made the National flow- 

 er, so she moved to the trumpet-vine. 



Down in that clump of trees where the 

 meadow narrows to a point and the 

 brook runs into the creek, there is an 

 interesting settlement. Listen ! Do 

 you hear that hysterical rapture going 

 on down there, like a continuous per- 

 formance, ■ That is Mr. Spotty Perky 

 Wren. He is likely to burst with joy 

 at any moment ; joy, because of the earth 

 and the fullness thereof ; joy, because 

 Mr. S. P. Wren was clever enough to 

 put his front door on the underside of 

 the hollow limb of the elm tree, where 

 the busy world would never spy it (he 

 forgot that I was never busy in my life) ; 

 joy, because inside that dead and stupid- 

 looking limb are five tiny perky baby 

 wrens whom he considers unnaturally 

 beautiful, and living images of their fath- 

 er — every one. Notice that bit of lichen 

 pasted on the branch of the oak tree. 

 Mrs. Humming-Bird calls that a nest, 

 and she fondly believes that from those 

 homeopathic pills on which she sits day 

 after day will one day come youthful 

 Humming-Birds. Papa Hummer sits 



careless and debonair two or three trees 

 away, posing as the heartless husband, 

 and deceiving nobody. That little 

 growth in the crotch of the maple is the 

 home of a white-eyed Vireo. And over 

 in that same corner near the creek, where 

 the trees and underbrush make a plunge 

 at the end of the meadow, live the Wood 

 Thrush, the Oven Bird, the Hermit and 

 the Water Wagtail. And when night is 

 beginning to come and you have a lone- 

 some feeling at your heart, the Wood 

 Thrush calls his love : 'Em-o-lee, Em-o- 

 lee." It comes through the still gray 

 dusk like a prayer, and if I were Emilie I 

 should go — even to the jungle. 



No, that is not a knock at the kitchen 

 door ; it ^s the Downy Woodpecker in the 

 ailanthus tree. But what is this hulla- 

 baloo over by the rose bush? I hear 

 strange voices. Not a Cuckoo — the shy- 

 est of the shy! Oh, no, that would be 

 too great a thing even to dream of. But 

 yes it is ! — ^there can be no mistaking that 

 motion — that note — those tail-markings. 

 Mr. and Mrs. Cuckoo at my door ! What 

 can it mean? Ah, I see; the baby 

 cuckoo is caught in my rose-bed. Was 

 ever an idler so blessed?" 



"I must be going," say you who never 

 studied idling. 



"Good-bye," say I. "Please go soft- 

 ly, and on the far side of the rose-bed. 

 I cannot weed my garden today; a baby 

 cuckoo is in my rose-bed." 



Nell KIimberly McElhone. 



THE BLUEBIRD. 



Love wrote a poem on the blue-bell's cup, 



A tender dream of unforgotten springs. 

 And when the grateful flower to Heaven looked up, 



Translating the sweet poem word by word, 

 Delighted with Love's work, the Master heard 



And gave the little blossom two blue wings. 



Nelly Hart Woodworth. 



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