about the room, enjoying greatly at times, standing on his bald head. He always 



a ride on a cat's back. At meals he announced his master's coming by a 



perched upon his master's shoulder, pick- shrill call, and no matter what the hour 



ing the bits he liked from a plate set of night, never failed to utter a note of 



before him. If the weather was cold or welcome, although apparently asleep with 



chilly, he would pull himself up by his his head tucked under his wing, 

 master's whiskers and warm his feet bv 



THE BIRDS OF AMERICA. 



I shall not greet your birds at home, 



Their songs are not for me; 

 Among your woods I may not roam. 



Your flowers I may not see. 



And yet I find them in your books, — 



Bird, blossom, wood and field. 

 And sunny spots and sheltered nooks, 



Before my eyes revealed. 



Your meadow-larks melodiously 



"Sweet o' the year" proclaim, 

 Your yellow-throat cries ''witchery," 



"Bob-w^hite" repeats his name. 



I see your swallows on the wing. 



Your sparrows in the grasses, 

 Your orioles' hanging nests, that swing 



To every breeze that passes. 



I hear your blue-bird's warbling note, 



And in your garden-bowers 

 Behold your flashing ruby-throat 



Hang pois'd before the flowers. 



I watch your robin on the ground, 



Your kingbird in the air ; 

 Your singing bob-o-links abound, 



Your wTens peep here and there. 



Your chic-a-dee, that dares to stay 



When summer-birds are gone. 

 In sober suit of black and grey 



Through winter-woods flits on. 



And when your pages I forsake 



And go my w^ays to bed. 

 Your birds still flutter on and make 



Sweet music in my head. 



— Henry Johnstone. 



