So teach ye me the wisest part,
      My little doves! to move
    Along the city-ways with heart
      Assured by holy love,
    And vocal with such songs as own
    A fountain to the world unknown.

MRS. BROWNING.

* * * * *

THE DOVES OF VENICE.

    I stood in the quiet piazza,
      Where come rude noises never;
    But the feet of children, the wings of doves,
      Are sounding on forever.

    And the cooing of their soft voices,
      And the touch of the rippling sea,
    And the ringing clock of the armed knight,
      Came through the noon to me.

    While their necks with rainbow gleaming,
      ’Neath the dark old arches shone,
    And the campanile’s shadow long,
      Moved o’er the pavement stone.

    And from every “coigne of vantage,”
      Where lay some hidden nest,
    They fluttered, peeped, and glistened forth,
      Sacred, serene, at rest.

    I thought of thy saint, O Venice! 
      Who said in his tenderness,
    “I love thy birds, my Father dear,
      Our lives they cheer and bless!

    “For love is not for men only;
      To the tiniest little things
    Give room to nestle in our hearts;
      Give freedom to all wings!”

    And the lovely, still piazza,
      Seemed with his presence blest,
    And I, and the children, and the doves,
      Partakers of his rest.

LAURA WINTHROP JOHNSON.

* * * * *

SONG OF THE DOVE.

    There sitteth a dove so white and fair,
      All on the lily spray,
    And she listeneth how, to Jesus Christ,
      The little children pray.

    Lightly she spreads her friendly wings,
      And to heaven’s gate hath sped,
    And unto the Father in heaven she bears
      The prayers which the children have said.

    And back she comes from heaven’s gate,
      And brings—­that dove so mild—­
    From the Father in heaven, who hears her speak,
      A blessing for every child.

    Then, children, lift up a pious prayer,
      It hears whatever you say,
    That heavenly dove, so white and fair,
      That sits on the lily spray.

FREDERIKA BREMER.

* * * * *

WHAT THE QUAIL SAYS.

    Whistles the quail from the covert,
      Whistles with all his might,
    High and shrill, day after day,
    “Children, tell me, what does he say?”
      Ginx—­(the little one, bold and bright,
    Sure that he understands aright)—­
      “He says, ‘Bob White!  Bob White!’”

    Calls the quail from the cornfield,
      Thick with stubble set;
    Misty rain-clouds floating by
    Hide the blue of the August sky. 
    “What does he call now, loud and plain?”
    Gold Locks—­“That’s a sign of rain! 
      He calls ‘More wet! more wet!’”