And soon that toil shall end;

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend

                Some o’er thy sheltered nest.

        Thou’rt gone—­the abyss of heaven

Hath swallowed up thy form—­yet on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,

                And shall not soon depart.

        He, who from zone to zone

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone

                Will lead my steps aright.

W. C. BRYANT.

* * * * *

SEA FOWL.

Through my north window, in the wintry weather,—­
My airy oriel on the river shore,—­
I watch the sea-fowl as they flock together
Where late the boatman flashed his dripping oar.

    I see the solemn gulls in council sitting
      On some broad ice-floe, pondering long and late,
    While overhead the home-bound ducks are flitting,
      And leave the tardy conclave in debate,

    Those weighty questions in their breasts revolving,
      Whose deeper meaning science never learns,
    Till at some reverend elder’s look dissolving,
      The speechless senate silently adjourns.

    He knows you! “sportsman” from suburban alleys,
      Stretched under seaweed in the treacherous punt;
    Knows every lazy, shiftless lout that sallies
      Forth to waste powder—­as he says, to “hunt.”

    I watch you with a patient satisfaction,
      Well pleased to discount your predestined luck;
    The float that figures in your sly transaction
      Will carry back a goose, but not a duck.

    Shrewd is our bird; not easy to outwit him! 
      Sharp is the outlook of those pin-head eyes;
    Still, he is mortal and a shot may hit him;
      One cannot always miss him if he tries!

    O Thou who carest for the falling sparrow,
      Canst Thou the sinless sufferer’s pang forget? 
    Or is thy dread account-book’s page so narrow
      Its one long column scores thy creature’s debt?

    Poor, gentle guest, by nature kindly cherished,
      A world grows dark with thee in blinding death;
    One little gasp,—­thy universe has perished,
      Wrecked by the idle thief who stole thy breath!

From “My Aviary,” by O. W. HOLMES.

* * * * *

THE SANDPIPER.

    Across the narrow beach we flit,
      One little sandpiper and I,
    And fast I gather, bit by bit,
      The scattered driftwood bleached and dry. 
    The wild waves reach their hands for it,
      The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,
    As up and down the beach we flit,—­
      One little sandpiper and I.