Of love and of friendship, and all the sweet trifles
      That go to make bird-life so careless and free;
    The number of grubs in the apple-tree yonder,
      The promise of fruit in the big cherry-tree;

    Of matches in prospect;—­how Robin and Jenny
      Are planning together to build them a nest;
    How Bobolink left Mrs. Bobolink moping
      At home, and went off on a lark with the rest.

    Such mild little slanders! such innocent gossip! 
      Such gay little coquetries, pretty and bright! 
    Such happy love makings! such talks in the orchard! 
      Such chatterings at daybreak! such whisperings at night!

    O birds in the tree-tops!  O robins and sparrows! 
      O bluebirds and bobolinks! what would be May
    Without your glad presence,—­the songs that you sing us,
      And all the sweet nothings we fancy you say?

CAROLINE A. MASON.

* * * * *

    Sweet Mercy is Nobility’s true badge.

Titus Andronicus, Act 1, Sc. 2.

* * * * *

THE WREN’S NEST.

          I took the wren’s nest: 
          Heaven forgive me! 
    Its merry architects so small
    Had scarcely finished their wee hall
    That, empty still, and neat and fair,
    Hung idly in the summer air. 
    The mossy walls, the dainty door,
    Where Love should enter and explore,
    And Love sit carolling outside,
    And Love within chirp multiplied;—­
          I took the wren’s nest;
          Heaven forgive me!

    How many hours of happy pains
    Through early frosts and April rains,
    How many songs at eve and morn
    O’er springing grass and greening corn,
    What labors hard through sun and shade
    Before the pretty house was made! 
    One little minute, only one,
    And she’ll fly back, and find it—­gone! 
          I took the wren’s nest: 
          Bird, forgive me!

    Thou and thy mate, sans let, sans fear,
    Ye have before you all the year,
    And every wood holds nooks for you,
    In which to sing and build and woo;
    One piteous cry of birdish pain—­
    And ye’ll begin your life again,
    Forgetting quite the lost, lost home
    In many a busy home to come. 
    But I? your wee house keep I must,
    Until it crumble into dust. 
          I took the wren’s nest: 
          God forgive me!

DINAH MARIA (MULOCK) CRAIK.

* * * * *

ON ANOTHER’S SORROW.

    Can I see another’s woe,
    And not be in sorrow too? 
    Can I see another’s grief,
    And not seek for kind relief?

    Can I see a falling tear,
    And not feel my sorrow’s share? 
    Can a father see his child
    Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?