bons and silken flowers was considered 

 the acme of fashion and for which the 

 devout attendant at Easter service would 

 pay a sum sufficient to support a mission- 

 ary for months. If that sum had been 

 called a fine for the destruction of inno- 

 cent, happy life the milliner's attempt at 

 artistic arrangement of colors would have 

 received its true name of barbarity. But 

 the word "Fine !" was used only in com- 

 mendation. Thanks to the united efforts 

 of the Audubon Societies and other bird- 

 lovers, bird sacrifice is becoming poor 

 taste as it grows unfashionable. 



A few years since a, friend of mine 

 had her dining-room window nearly cov- 

 ered by a trumpet-creeper. In the shade 

 of this plant, among the flowers they 

 seem to love best, a pair of ruby-throats 

 came one May day and made their nest, 

 and so close to the window was it built 

 that all their house-planning and house- 

 keeping could be closely and easily ob- 

 served. The male would often rest upon 

 a twig among the thick green leaves, and 

 in a squeaking voice tell either of his 



love for his mate or of his day's labor. 

 The tiny eggs hatched under the care of 

 the house-people, for they saw to it that 

 no cat or other beast of prey, two-legged 

 or four-legged, molested these tiniest 

 treasures of bird land. The nestlings, 

 small as honey bees at first, grew rapidly 

 from the effect of the nourishment thrust 

 down their infinitessimal throats by the 

 beaks of their parents. They became 

 nearly full-fledged air sailors in a few 

 short weeks ; then, all flew away together 

 and the house beautiful on the inside of 

 the window panes has nothing but lov- 

 ing words when any of its members 

 speak of the home beautiful outside. 



For reasons very apparent to those 

 who have ever made friends with any 

 family of our little brothers of the air, 

 hummingbirds, mounted life-like upon 

 swaying wires, amid laces and bewitch- 

 ing blossoms, have seemed as a sacrilege 

 to them and to their friends, who to- 

 gether watched the unfolding of that un- 

 written idyl among the summer leaves. 

 Mary Catherine Judd. 



AUGUST. 



I know 'tis August, for the milkweed flower 

 Hangs heavy-headed on its stately stem. 

 Soon shall the pale, curved pods, shed silver floss 

 To broider Autumn's robe with shining hem. 



I know 'tis August, for the fields of rye 



No' longer wave in shining billowy ranks ; 



But have, like armies, pitched their tawny tents, 



And streams have shrunken, 'neath their willow'd banks. 



The harvest fly, with sudden stinging sound, 

 Rings his triangle in the drowsy trees. 

 He bids us note wan Summer drifting by, 

 Her robe scarce stirring in the languid breeze. 



Subdued bird-music hints of southern flight ; " ■ 



At night the katydids begin to call 



And deep-toned crickets chant of shortening days 



With coming frosts, and glories of the fall. 



— Belle A. Hitchcock. 



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