OUR FRIENDS, THE BIRDS. 
Best of priests and poets, thou, 
Sitting on the leafless bough. 
Mead and mountain wood and wold, 
Wait the rapture manifold; 
Which shall prove thee saint and seer, 
Dearest minstrel of the year. 
Glows the mold with vernal fire, 
Kindled by thy love’s desire; 
Nature wakens at thy call, 
To her annual festival. 
Every note like April rain, 
Thou transmutest in thy strain; 
With the season’s subtle power, 
Winter’s dearth or summer’s dower. 
Matchless messenger divine, 
Peerless privilege is thine; 
Thou interpretest to faith, 
The deep mystery of death. 
THE SAME ROBIN. 
By CELIA THAXTER. 
Don’t you remember his glowing red breast 
And his olive brown coat and his shining black eyes, 
How he works for his dinner and watches his nest, 
A citizen sober and happy and wise ! 
