A rosy flush creeps up the sky,
    The birds begin their symphony. 
    I hear the clear, triumphant voice
    Of the Robin, bidding the world rejoice. 
    The Vireos catch the theme of the song,
    And the Baltimore Oriole bears it along,
    While from Sparrow, and Thrush, and Wood Pewee,
    And, deep in the pine-trees, the Chickadee,
    There’s an undercurrent of harmony.

The Linnet sings like a magic flute,
The Lark and Bluebird touch the lute,
The Starling pipes to the shining morn
With the vibrant note of the joyous horn,
The splendid Jay
Is the trumpeter gay,
The Kingfisher, sounding his rattle,—­he
May the player on the cymbals be,
The Cock, saluting the sun’s first ray,
Is the bugler sounding a reveille. 
“Caw!  Caw!” cries the crow, and his grating tone
Completes the chord like a deep trombone.

But, above them all, the Robin sings;
His song is the very soul of day,
And all black shadows troop away
While, pure and fresh, his music rings: 
“Light is here! 
Never fear! 
Day is near! 
My dear!”

MISS HARRIET E. PAINE.

* * * * *

EVENING SONGS.

Gliding at sunset in my boat,
I hear the Veery’s bubbling note;
And a Robin, flying late,
Sounds the home-call to his mate. 
Then the sun sinks low
In the western glow,
And the birds go to rest.  But hush! 
Far off sings the sweet Wood-Thrush. 
He sings—­and waits—­and sings again,
The liquid notes of that holy strain.

    He ceases, and all the world is still: 
    And then the moon climbs over the hill,
    And I hear the cry of the Whip-poor-will.

    Tranquil, I lay me down to sleep,
    While the summer stars a vigil keep;
    And I hear from the Sparrow a gentle trill,
    Which means,
      “Good Night; Peace and Good Will.”

MISS HARRIET E. PAINE.

* * * * *

LITTLE BROWN BIRD.

    A little brown bird sat on a stone;
    The sun shone thereon, but he was alone. 
    “O pretty bird, do you not weary
    Of this gay summer so long and dreary?”

    The little bird opened his black bright eyes,
    And looked at me with great surprise;
    Then his joyous song broke forth, to say,
    “Weary of what?  I can sing all day.”

Posies for Children.

* * * * *

LIFE’S SIGN.

    Wouldst thou the life of souls discern,
      Not human wisdom nor divine
    Helps thee by aught beside to learn,
      Love is life’s only sign.

KEBLE.

* * * * *

A BIRD’S MINISTRY.

    From his home in an Eastern bungalow,
    In sight of the everlasting snow
    Of the grand Himalayas, row on row,
    Thus wrote my friend:—­
                        “I had travelled far
    From the Afghan towers of Candahar,
    Through the sand-white plains of Sinde-Sagar;