Pipes the quail from the fence-top,
      Perched there full in sight,
    Quaint and trim, with quick, bright eye,
    Almost too round and plump to fly,
    Whistling, calling, piping clear,
    “What do I think he says?  My dear,
      He says ‘Do right! do right!’”

MRS. CLARA DOTY BATES.

* * * * *

CHICK-A-DEE-DEE.

    The snowflakes are drifting round windows and door;
    The chilly winds whistle “Remember the poor;”
    Remember the birds, too, out on yonder tree;
    I hear one just singing a Chick-a-dee-dee.

    Throw out a few crumbs! you’ve enough and to spare;
    They need through the winter your kindness and care;
    And they will repay you with heartiest glee,
    By constantly singing a Chick-a-dee-dee.

    Each morning you’ll see them go hopping around,
    Though little they find on the cold frozen ground;
    Yet never disheartened! on each bush and tree,
    They merrily carol a Chick-a-dee-dee.

    Oh! sweet little songster; so fearless and bold! 
    Your little pink feet—­do they never feel cold? 
    Have you a warm shelter at night for your bed,
    Where under your wing you can tuck your brown head?

    Though cold grows the season you seem not to care,
    But cheerily warble though frosty the air;
    Though short are the days, and the nights are so long,
    And most of your playmates are scattered and gone.

    The snowflakes are drifting round window and door,
    And chilly winds whistle behind and before,
    Yet never discouraged, on each bush and tree,
    You’ll hear the sweet carol of Chick-a-dee-dee.

MRS. C. F. BERRY.

* * * * *

THE LINNET.

    What is the happiest morning song? 
      The Linnet’s.  He warbles, blithe and free,
      In the sunlit top of the old elm-tree,
    Joyous and fresh, and hopeful and strong.

    The trees are not high enough, little bird;
      You mount and wheel, and eddy and soar,
      And with every turn yet more and more
    Your wonderful, ravishing music is heard.

    A crimson speck in the bright blue sky,
      Do you search for the secret of heaven’s deep glow? 
      Is not heaven within, when you carol so? 
    Then why, dear bird, must you soar so high?

    He answers nothing, but soars and sings;
      He heeds no doubtful question like this. 
      He only bubbles over with bliss,
    And sings, and mounts on winning wings.

HARRIET E. PAINE:  Bird Songs of New England.

* * * * *

HEAR THE WOODLAND LINNET.

    Books! ’tis a dull and endless strife: 
      Come, hear the woodland Linnet,
    How sweet his music! on my life,
      There’s more of wisdom in it.