24 



those first strong notes with greater fervor, 

 then inflating his throat, he fairly quivers 

 from head to foot with the enthusiasm of 

 his song. 



In his poem to the song sparrow, 

 Henry van Dyke says : 



Birds & Nature Magazine 



Maiden Hair Ferns 

 as House Plants 



By JANE FERGUSON 



D] 



He does not wear a Joseph's coat 

 Of many colors, smart and gay; 

 His suit is Quaker brown and gray. 

 With darker patches at his throat, 

 And yet of all the well-dressed throng 

 Not one can sing so brave a song. 

 It makes the pride of looks appear 

 A vain and foolish thing, to hear 

 His "Sweet — sweet — sweet — very merry 

 ' cheer." 



A lofty place he does not love, 

 But sits by choice, and well at ease. 

 In hedges and the little trees 

 That stretch their slender arms above 

 The meadow brook; and there he sings 

 Till all the field with pleasure rings; 

 And so he tells in every ear, 

 That lowly homes to heaven are near 

 In "Sweet — sweet — sweet — very merry 

 cheer." 



The Throstle 



SUMMER is coming, summer is com- 



I know it, I know it, I know it. 

 Light again, leaf again, life again, love 

 again, ^ 

 Yes, my wild little Poet. 



Sing the new year in under the blue. 



Last year you sang it as gladly. 

 "New, new, new, new!" Is it then so new 



That you should carol so madly? 



"Love again, song again, nest again, young 

 again," 



Never a prophet so crazy! 

 And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend. 



See, there is hardly a daisy. 



"Here again, here, here, here, happy year!" 

 O w^arble unchidden, unbidden ! 



Summer is coming, is coming, my dear. 

 And all the winters are hidden. 



— Alfred Tennyson. 



M 



Y first attempt at growing wild 

 maidenhair ferns indoors was 

 made with large, healthy plants 

 that grew on the clif^side. I dug the ferns, 

 not too carefully, and after selecting some 

 for house use, put the others in a moist, 

 sheltered spot in my garden. The plants 

 both in and out of doors lived a few weeks 

 and then died. The next spring the ferns 

 in the bed came up, but those in the dishes 

 remained lifeless. The soil being the same 

 in both cases, I concluded that the house 

 plants received too much sunshine. At the 

 next attempt I selected large plants, as 

 before, and this time I secured the woods' 

 earth, but I carefully excluded the sun- 

 light, and, of course, air, and the ferns 

 died, as before, while the garden ferns 

 flourished. 



This past spring I determined to succeed, 

 and set myself to studying the conditions 

 that surrounded the fern in its native ele- 

 ment. I noticed that there was plenty of 

 light on the cliff — but it was diffused, not 

 direct. It struck me as remarkable that 

 there was no wind-swept place on the cliff- 

 side. This last fact seemed to furnish the 

 key to my problem, especially when I ob- 

 served that my own successful fern bed was 

 never wind-blown. 



With so much enlightenment I set about 

 my experiment once again, says the writer 

 in a recent issue of "Country Life." This 

 time I carried the fern dishes to the cliff, 

 partially filled them with the loose, rocky 

 soil (another essential), and then selected 

 the tiniest shoots I could find. 



I kept the ferns in the library, and at 

 the slightest indication of a wind storm or 

 sweeping breeze I moved my dishes to a 

 protected part of the room. The tiny 

 plants began to grow rapidly, and my re- 

 sults are fully compensating me for my 

 years of study and effort to attain them. 

 When I give my ferns the benefit of a 

 gentle rain or the outside air, I carefully 

 shield and protect them from a wandering 

 breeze. 



