One bright sheen,
    Which the breeze puffs out in billows
          Foamy green. 
    From the marshy brook that’s smoking
          In the fog
    I can catch the crool and croaking
          Of a frog. 
    Dogwood stars the slopes are studding,
          And I see
    Blooms upon the purple-budding
          Judas-tree. 
    Aspen tassels thick are dropping
          All about,
    And the alder-leaves are cropping
          Broader out;
    Mouse-ear tufts the hawthorn sprinkle,
          Edged with rose;
    The park bed of periwinkle
          Fresher grows. 
    Up and down are midges dancing
          On the grass: 
    How their gauzy wings are glancing
          As they pass! 
    What does all this haste and hurry
          Mean, I pray—­
    All this out-door flush and flurry
          Seen to-day? 
    This presaging stir and humming,
          Thrill and call?
    Mean? It means that spring is coming;
          That is all!

MARGARET J. PRESTON.

* * * * *

THE CANARY IN HIS CAGE.

    Sing away, ay, sing away,
      Merry little bird,
    Always gayest of the gay,
    Though a woodland roundelay
      You ne’er sung nor heard;
    Though your life from youth to age
    Passes in a narrow cage.

    Near the window wild birds fly,
      Trees are waving round;
    Fair things everywhere you spy
    Through the glass pane’s mystery,
      Your small life’s small bound: 
    Nothing hinders your desire
    But a little gilded wire.

    Like a human soul you seem
      Shut in golden bars: 
    Placed amid earth’s sunshine stream,
    Singing to the morning beam,
      Dreaming ’neath the stars;
    Seeing all life’s pleasures clear,—­
    But they never can come near.

    Never!  Sing, bird-poet mine,
      As most poets do;—­
    Guessing by an instinct fine
    At some happiness divine
      Which they never knew. 
    Lonely in a prison bright
    Hymning for the world’s delight.

    Yet, my birdie, you’re content
      In your tiny cage: 
    Not a carol thence is sent
    But for happiness is meant—­
      Wisdom pure as sage: 
    Teaching the pure poet’s part
    Is to sing with merry heart.

    So lie down, thou peevish pen;
      Eyes, shake off all tears;
    And, my wee bird, sing again: 
    I’ll translate your song to men
      In these future years. 
    “Howsoe’er thy lot’s assigned,
    Meet it with a cheerful mind.”

MRS. DINAH MARIA (MULOCK) CRAIK.

* * * * *

WHO STOLE THE BIRD’S-NEST.

    Te-whit! te-whit! te-whee! 
    Will you listen to me? 
    Who stole four eggs I laid,
    And the nice nest I made?