of Julie's water-kindergarten as soon as ing near the shore ; how the next size 



he came home, and it amused him greatly, run together, and venture a little further 



But when she began to look grave over out, seeking the deeper water, and the 



his laughter, he took her upon his knee next in another school, and so on up to 



and told her a beautiful story of how the great porpoises she had seen in the 



the tiny fish of one size go about in kin- Gulf. It was such a beautiful story that 



dergartens, as she had named them, play- the two children were glad again that 



ing and seeking food together, and keep- Julie had found her water-kindergarten. 



Leonora Beck Ellis. 



IS IT TRUE? 



Oh the bird-wings astir in the cedars : 



The bird-wings that speed overhead : 

 The wings that sweep under the eaves and away, 



Like the breath of a word that is said : 

 The wings that swing high in the poplars : 



That stoop, with a sweep, to the grass 

 And circling rise to the far-away skies, 



The cliffs of the mountain-pass : 

 Up, on, past rims of the rainbow : 



Afar, through avalanche mist, 

 Past glacial heights to the clouds beyond — • 



To the clouds that the sun hath kissed : 

 Down, down to the turf in the forest: 



To the pool hidden under the rock : 

 To the foam of the sea ; to the beating sea ; 



To the breast of the rippled loch : — 

 Oh the bird-wings aglint in the sunshine; 



Aglint in the rain and the sleet ; 

 Undaunted they go like the winds, to and fro. 



Their love-missions prone to complete. 

 But what means the wail through the forest? — 



The dirge moaning over the leas ; 

 The dirge through morass and through mountain-pass ; 



Mingled too with the wail of the seas? 

 Is it true that the bird cries of anguish. 



The notes of the bird's dying call. 

 Must circle the world with their echoes — 



The cries of of the birds as they fall ? — 

 That man, with a stature so God-like; 



A hand that can succor and save ; 

 A love like a fire when it burneth. 



Hath naught for the birds but a grave? — 

 Hath naught but an arrow, a missile. 



And laughter, that sad winds repeat, 

 When wings that have swept midst the azure, 



Lie broken and stained at his feet? 



— George Klingle. 



43 



