We cannot have too many of these sweet songsters.  They make our hearts glad with their delightful melody, and they help us to keep our gardens beautiful.

The field sparrow is found in pastures and woodlands.  If he is disturbed, he flies up suddenly from the grass and alights again farther on.  He has a sweet song that ends in a little trill.

While we find our own sparrows lovable we are not so fond of the English sparrows, which have become more numerous than the native birds.  The English sparrow, or finch, as he is more properly called, may be a troublesome visitor, but we invited him to come, and he is not to blame for some of his disagreeable ways.  He is by no means useless, for he clears the gutters of quantities of unsavory and unsightly fragments which would decay and become a nuisance if not removed.  The English sparrow eats also a great many of the army worms which have done so much harm in some parts of the country, and he has in many places entirely destroyed the cankerworms.

He has good traits, and he may certainly be admired for his courage and perseverance.  He bears our hard winters very cheerfully, and when no other birds are to be seen he flies about, chirping as bravely as in the summer sunshine.

SPARROWS

 Let skies be sunny or clouds hang low
 Little brown sparrow away you go
 Ever in search of food or fun
 Come summer or winter rain or sun

 Boughs of lilac whereon to rest
 April spreads when you build your nest,
 Autumn feeds you with golden corn
 And berries ripe on the wayside thorn

 Winter comes with its frost and snow
 Waters may freeze and winds may blow
 Yet little you care and nought you rue,
 For every hand has a crumb for you

 Through sunshine tomorrow and storm today
 You go like a friar of orders gray,
 Finding wherever your fancy leads,
 A table spread for the wanderer’s needs

CHRISTMAS IN NORWAY.

 In the far-off land of Norway,
   Where the winter lingers late,
 And long for the singing birds and flowers
   The little children wait;

 When at last the summer ripens
   And the harvest is gathered in,
 And food for the bleak, drear days to come
   The toiling people win,—­

 Through all the land the children
   In the golden fields remain
 Till their busy little hands have gleaned
   A generous sheaf of grain.

 All the stalks by the reapers forgotten
   They glean to the very least,
 To save till the cold December,
   For the sparrows’ Christmas feast.

 And then through the frost-locked country
   There happens a wonderful thing: 
 The sparrows flock north, south, east, west,
   For the children’s offering.

 Of a sudden, the day before Christmas,
   The twittering crowds arrive,
 And the bitter, wintry air at once
   With their chirping is all alive.