In the cleft: Lord, quicken with dew and rain,
Then temple and mosque shall be rent in twain! "

MARGARET J. PRESTON.

OF BIRDS.

See, Christ makes the birds our masters and teachers! so that a feeble sparrow, to our great and perpetual shame, stands in the gospel as a doctor and preacher to the wisest of men.

MARTIN LUTHER.

BIRDS IN SPRING.

Listen! What a sudden rustle
Fills the air!

All the birds are in a bustle

Everywhere.

Such a ceaseless croon and twitter
Overhead!

Such a flash of wings that glitter
Wide outspread!

Far away I hear a drumming,-
Tap, tap, tap!

Can the woodpecker be coming
After sap?

Butterflies are hovering over
(Swarms on swarms)

Yonder meadow-patch of clover,

Like snow-storms.

Through the vibrant air a-tingle
Buzzingly,

Throbs and o'er me sails a single
Bumble-bee.

Lissom swayings make the willows
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

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?

Not I, said the cow, moo-oo!
Such a thing I'd never do.
I gave for you a wisp of hay,
And did not take your nest away.
Not I, said the cow, moo-oo!

Such a thing I'd never do.

Not I, said the dog, bow-wow!

I would n't be so mean as that, now,

I

gave

hairs the nest to make,

But the nest I did not take.

Not I, said the dog, bow-wow!
I would n't be so mean as that, now.

Not I, said the sheep, Oh no!

I

gave

I would n't treat a poor bird so!
the wool the nest to line,
But the nest was none of mine.
Baa! baa! said the sheep; Oh no,
I would n't treat a poor bird so.

I would not rob a bird,
Said little Mary Green;
I think I never heard
Of any thing so mean.
'T is very cruel, too,

Said little Alice Neal ;

I wonder if she knew

How sad the bird would feel?

A little boy hung down his head,
And went and hid behind the bed,
For he stole that pretty nest
From poor little yellow-breast;
And he felt so full of shame

He did n't like to tell his name.

Hymns for Mother and Children.

WHO STOLE THE EGGS?

"Oh, what is the matter with Robin,

That makes her cry round here all day?