74 
THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
THE THRUSH. 
How void of care yon merry thrush, 
That tunes melodious on the bush, 
That has no stores of wealth to keep. 
No lands to plough, no corn to reap. 
He never frets for worthless things, 
But lives in peace, and sweetly sings ; 
Enjoys the present with his mate, 
Unmindful of to-morrow's fate. 
Of true felicity possest, 
He glides through life supremely blest 
And for his daily meal relies 
On Him whose love the world supplies. 
Rejoiced he finds his morning fare ; 
His dinner lies — he knows not where ; 
Still to th* unfailing hand he chants 
His grateful song, and never wants. 
Williams. 
I wish parents would endeavour to impress on 
the minds of their children the cruelty of robbing 
