MISS HARRIET E. PAINE:  Bird Songs of New England.

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THE FIELD SPARROW.

    A bubble of music floats
      The slope of the hillside over—­
    A little wandering sparrow’s notes—­
      On the bloom of yarrow and clover. 
    And the smell of sweet-fern and the bayberry-leaf
      On his ripple of song are stealing;
    For he is a chartered thief,
      The wealth of the fields revealing.

    One syllable, clear and soft
      As a raindrop’s silvery patter,
    Or a tinkling fairy-bell, heard aloft,
      In the midst of the merry chatter
    Of robin and linnet and wren and jay,
      One syllable, oft-repeated: 
    He has but a word to say,
      And of that he will not be cheated.

    The singer I have not seen;
      But the song I arise and follow
    The brown hills over, the pastures green,
      And into the sunlit hollow. 
    With the joy of a lowly heart’s content
      I can feel my glad eyes glisten,
    Though he hides in his happy tent,
      While I stand outside and listen.

    This way would I also sing,
      My dear little hillside neighbor! 
    A tender carol of peace to bring
      To the sunburnt fields of labor,
    Is better than making a loud ado. 
      Trill on, amid clover and yarrow: 
    There’s a heart-beat echoing you,
      And blessing you, blithe little sparrow!

LUCY LARCOM.

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THE SPARROW.

    Glad to see you, little bird;
    ’Twas your little chirp I heard: 
    What did you intend to say? 
    “Give me something this cold day?”

    That I will, and plenty too;
    All the crumbs I saved for you. 
    Don’t be frightened:  here’s a treat. 
    I will wait and see you eat.

    Shocking tales I hear of you;
    Chirp, and tell me, are they true? 
    Robbing all the summer long;
    Don’t you think it very wrong?

    Thomas says you steal his wheat;
    John complains his plums you eat,
    Choose the ripest for your share,
    Never asking whose they are?

    But I will not try to know
    What you did so long ago: 
    There’s your breakfast; eat away;
    Come and see me every day.

Child’s Book of Poetry.

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PICCOLA AND SPARROW.

    Poor, sweet Piccola!  Did you hear
    What happened to Piccola, children dear? 
    ’Tis seldom Fortune such favor grants
    As fell to this little maid of France.

    ’Twas Christmas-time, and her parents poor
    Could hardly drive the wolf from the door,
    Striving with poverty’s patient pain
    Only to live till summer again.

    No gifts for Piccola!  Sad were they
    When dawned the morning of Christmas Day;
    Their little darling no joy might stir,
    St. Nicholas nothing would bring to her!