OUR FRIENDS, THE BIRDS. is 
the bare branches where lately they swung their ham- 
mocks and built their summer homes; the rain and 
sleet may cover the fields where Bobolink and Meadow- 
lark hid their babies’ cradles; the clouds may hang 
dark and heavy between us and the sky, but the 
birds will greet the sunrise amid the orange groves of 
Florida or the green islands of the Atlantic. 
And when the winter snows have melted, and the 
warm spring sun is calling bud and blossom back to 
life, some morning we awake to find the birds are 
come again. The very Robin that built his nest in our 
apple tree last summer is back again in our door- 
yard; and the self-same Oriole that swung his basket 
from a branch of yonder elm, is piping his gayest 
notes from its topmost branch. Twice they have trav- 
eled those weary miles over land and sea since last we 
heard them. 
This is the mystery,—how they know the way. 
TO A WATERFOWL. 
BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
‘There is a Power whose care 
Teaches the way along that pathless coast, 
The desert and illimitable air— 
Lone wandering, but not lost. 
All day thy wings have fanned 
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere; 
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 
Though the dark night be near. 
