ment as closely as if you were a danger- 

 ous character traveling under an alias, 

 and could not be trusted to sail upon this 

 ruddy ocean in which their lordships 

 have anchored their private yachts. Push 

 your boat far in among the reeds and cat- 

 tails, into the sea of shadows over which 

 no sluggish current sends a ripple, and 

 certain globular nests in the tangled 

 reeds reward your search. Push your 

 fingers within these nests and in one only, 

 here and there, will you find from five to 

 ten dark eggs, a rich reward for all your 

 trouble. 



Meanwhile the "neighbors, and the 

 marsh wren generally has numbers of 



them, have doubtless been charming you 

 with their bubbling, gurgling song, al- 

 ways half the colony singing at once, or^ 

 one bird rising above the reeds gives the 

 order, as it were, and the whole colony 

 joins in the chorus. The song is' quite be- 

 yond their control; they seem filled to 

 overflowing with an inexhaustible supply 

 of music, which trickles down the reeds, 

 like gathered-up drops of water charged 

 with music. 



''Sometimes, like a mine of melody, it 

 explodes within them and lifts them from 

 the dark recesses of the flags into the air 

 above." Nelly Hart Woodworth. 



WHEN SPRING COMES, 



Again the birds will weave their nests, 

 And come and go on airy wing; 



And one will nurse her little guests 

 And one will watch and sweetly sing. 



The bushes small and towering trees 

 Their leaves of living green will don, 



And, swaying in the restless breeze, 

 Will laugh because old Winter's gone. 



— George Gee. 



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