SEPTEMBER 23.

SONG OF THE LINNETS.

  “Cheer!” “Cheer!” sing the linnets
  Through rapturous minutes,
  When daylight first breaks
  And the golden Dawn streaks
  Through the rose of the morning—­so bright! 
  “Gone! gone is the Night!  It is light!”

  “We have buried our heads
  Under eaves of the sheds,
  Where our tender broods sleep;
  And the long watch we keep
  Through the darkness and silence—­till dawn. 
  It is morn!  It is morn!  It is morn!”

JOHN WARD STIMSON,
in Wandering Chords.

SEPTEMBER 24.

THE HUMMING BIRD.

  Buz-z! whir-r!—­a flash and away! 
  A midget bejeweled mid flowers at play! 
  A snip of a birdling, the blossom-bells’ king,
  A waif of the sun-beams on quivering wing! 
  O prince of the fairies, O pygmy of fire,
  Will nothing those brave little wings of yours tire? 
  You follow the flowers from southern lands sunny,
  You pry amid petals all summer for honey! 
  Now rest on a twig, tiny flowerland sprite,
  Your dear little lady sits near in delight;
  In a wee felted basket she lovingly huddles—­
  Two dots of white eggs to her warm breast she cuddles! 
  Whiz-z! whiff! off to your flowers! 
  Buzz mid the perfume of jasmine bowers! 
  Chatter and chirrup, my king of the fays,
  And laugh at the song that I sing in your praise!

CHARLES KEELER,
in Elfin Songs of Sunland.

SEPTEMBER 25.

THE HUMMING BIRD.

  A sudden whirr of eager sound—­
  And now a something throbs around
  The flowers that watch the fountain.  Look! 
  It touched the rose, the green leaves shook,
  I think, and yet so lightly tost
  That not a spark of dew was lost. 
  Tell me, O rose, what thing it is
  That now appears, now vanishes? 
  Surely it took its fire-green hue
  From day-breaks that it glittered through;
  Quick, for this sparkle of the dawn
  Glints through the garden and is gone.

EDWIN MARKHAM,
in Lincoln and Other Poems.

SEPTEMBER 26.

She led the way to the climbing rose at the front of the house, and carefully lifting a branch, motioned to the boys to look under it.  There, hidden in the leafy covert, no higher than the young girl’s chin, was the daintiest nest ever seen, made of soft cotton from the pussy willows by the brook, interwoven with the finest grasses and green mosses, and embroidered with one shining golden thread.  And there was wee mother humming-bird, watching them a moment with bright, inquiring eyes, then darting off and poising in the air just above their heads, uncovering two tiny eggs about the size of buckshot, lying in a downy hollow like a thimble.