—Reprinted from Bird-lore.



THE HERMIT THRUSH.

While walking through a lonely wood I heard a lovely voice: A voice so fresh and true and good It made my heart rejoice.

It sounded like a Sunday bell, Rung softly in a town, Or like a stream, that in a dell Forever trickles down.

It seemed to me a voice of love, That always had loved me, So softly it rang out above— So wild and wanderingly.

O Voice, were you a golden dove, Or just a plain gray bird? O Voice, you are my wandering love, Lost, yet forever heard.

—Arvia Mackaye, 9 years old.



MY LITTLE BO-PEEP.

My little Bo-Peep does not cry for lost sheep— O no! She is sobbing for bread; Her hands are so tired, so weary her feet, That she sighs, "I wish I were dead."

My little Bo-Peep does not wander away O'er meadows so grassy and green; 'Mid the factory din, face wan, white and thin, My little Bo-Peep can be seen.

My little Bo-Peep does not dream of white sheep— Her day's work reaches into the night; On her pallet of straw, a few hours of rest— For her task she is up with the light.

O let's find a day for my Bo-Peep to play— Let's give her a breath of fresh air; Somehow we'll feel better when giving our thanks To God for our blessings in prayer.

Marion, Ohio.

—Isabella Virginia Freeland.



THE OAK TREE.

Long ago in changeful autumn, When the leaves are turning brown, From a tall oak's topmost branches Fell a little acorn down.

And it tumbled by the pathway, And a chance foot trod it deep In the ground, where all the winter In its shell it lay asleep.

With the white snow lying over, And the frost to hold it fast, Till there came the mild spring weather, When it burst its shell at last.

Many years kind Nature nursed it, Summers hot and winters long; Down the sun looked bright upon it, While it grew up tall and strong.

Now it stands up like a giant, Casting shadows broad and high, With huge trunk and leafy branches Spreading up into the sky.

Child, when haply you are resting, 'Neath the great oak's monster shade, Think how little was the acorn Whence that mighty tree was made.

Think how simple things and lowly Have a part in Nature's plan; How the great have small beginnings, And the child becomes a man.

Little efforts work great actions; Lessons in our childhood taught Mold the spirits to the temper Whereby noblest deeds are wrought.

Cherish then the gifts of childhood, Use them gently, guard them well: For their future growth and greatness Who can measure, who can tell?

—Colorado Arbor and Bird Day.



THE POPLAR FIELD.

The poplars are felled; farewell to the shade And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade; The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.

Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a view Of my favorite field, and the bank where they grew; And now in the grass behold they are laid, And the tree is my seat that once lent me their shade.

The blackbird has fled to another retreat, Where the hazel affords him a screen from the heat; And the scene where his melody charmed me before Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.

My fugitive years are all hasting away, And I must ere long lie as lowly as they, With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.

To change both my heart and my fancy employs; I reflect on the frailty of man and his joys; Short-lived as we are, yet our pleasures, we see, Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we.

—Cowper.



IN THE ORCHARD.

Far down in the orchard I found her, Her earnest eyes gazing aloft. A baby hand waved me a warning, A baby voice called to me—soft.

"Hush, mamma, don't frighten the birdies; They're busy at work, don't you see? A-picking the worms from the blossoms A-growing on God's apple-tree!"

Ah, child, when thy life work is given, God may not have great things for thee. Be content if He sets thee to guarding The blossoms upon His fruit tree.

Adelphi, Ohio.

—Mary Nowlan Wittwer.



"THANK YOU" AND "AMEN".

When we were at Grandpa's house to dine, He looked about with sober face; Then clasps his hands and shuts his eyes, And sister says he's saying grace.

He says long words that I don't know; I'm only six years old—but then I know two words he always says, And one is "thanks" and one's "Amen."

While walking in my grandpa's woods We saw a squirrel, big and gray; He held a nut between his paws, But did not eat it right away.

He closed his little shining eyes, His hands raised just like grandpa's—then I said, "O sister, keep real still, He's saying "Thank you" and "Amen.""

* * * * *

"He that planteth a tree is a servant of God, He provideth a kindness for many generations, And faces that he hath not seen shall bless him."

* * * * *

One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.



SPRINGTIME.

AIR—"AULD LANG SYNE."

The Winter storms have passed away, And Springtime now is here, With sunshine smiling all around, And heavens blue and clear. The gifts of Nature brighten earth, And Nature her garden gay; They give a cheery greeting bright On this, the Arbor Day.

The birds with gladsome voices sing, Each its melodious lay, And music swells each little throat On this, the Arbor Day. The trees put forth their greenest leaves, On this, the Arbor Day. And welcome now the chosen tree Which we shall plant today.

Ellen Beauchamp.



DO APPLE SEEDS POINT UP OR DOWN?

When teacher called the apple class, they gathered round to see What question deep in apple lore their task that day might be. "Now tell me," said the teacher, to little Polly Brown, "Do apple seeds grow pointing up, or are they pointing down?" Poor Polly didn't know, for she had never thought to look (And that's the kind of question you can't find in a book.) And of the whole big Apple class not one small pupil knew If apple seeds point up or down! But then, my dear, do you?

—Carolyn Wells in St. Nicholas.



If Mother Nature patches The leaves of trees and vines, I'm sure she does her darning With the needles of the pines.

They are so long and slender; And sometimes in full view, They have their thread of cobwebs And thimbles made of dew.

—William H. Hayne.



THE JOLLY OLD CROW.

On the limb of a tree sat a jolly old crow, And chattered away with glee, with glee, As he saw the old farmer go out to sow, And he cried: "It's all for me, for me— Caw, caw, caw!

I've learned all the tricks of this wonderful man, Who has such a regard for the crow, the crow, That he lays out his grounds in a regular plan, And covers his corn in a row, a row— Caw, caw, caw!"

—Selected.



THEY'LL COME AGAIN.

They'll come again to the apple tree, Robin and all the rest; When the orchard branches are fair to see In the snow of the blossoms dressed, And the prettiest thing in the world will be The building of the nest.



A PLUMP LITTLE GIRL AND A THIN LITTLE BIRD.

A plump little girl and a thin little bird Were out in the meadow together. "How cold that poor little bird must be Without any clothes like mine," said she, "Although it is sunshiny weather!"

"A nice little girl is that," piped he, "But, oh, how cold she must be! For, see, She hasn't a single feather!" So each shivered to think of the other poor thing, "Although it is sunshiny weather!"

—M. M. Dodge.



HOW THE WOODPECKER KNOWS.

How does he know where to dig his hole, The woodpecker there on the elm tree hole? How does he know what kind of a limb To use for a drum, and to burrow in? How does he find where the young grubs grow— I'd like to know?

The woodpecker flew to a maple limb, And drummed a tattoo that was fun for him, "No breakfast here! It's too hard for that." He said, as down on his tail he sat, "Just listen to this: rrrr rat-rat-tat."



Do you know when you wound any dear little bird, Or take from its home-nest another, That the cries of their anguish in heaven are heard, That God pities those birds and their mother?

Do you know the same God made the birds and the boys, And both for the very same reason, That each life should be bright with its homes and its joys, For each in its measure and season?

Do you know if you hark to the song in the air, So sweet in the freshness of morning, That the birds seem to sing, "We will trust to your care To keep us from danger and mourning?"

Do you, if you'd listen with soul and with heart, You never would ruffle a feather Of the dear little birds that make our glad world a part, For all are God's children together?



THE BOY'S PROTEST.

When a fellow knows every bird's nest In the fields for miles around, Where the squirrels play in the sunshine, Where the prettiest flowers are found; When he knows a pair of robins That will fly to his hands for crumbs, He hates to be penned in a school-room, And he's glad when Saturday comes.

There's a bee-tree on the hillside, But I'll not tell any one where; There's a school of trout in the mill-stream, And I want to go fishing there.

I know where an oriole's building, And a log where a partridge drums, And I'm going to the woods to see them, As soon as Saturday comes.

They shouldn't keep school in the springtime, When the world is so fresh and bright, When you want to be fishing and climbing, And playing from morn till night. It's a shame to be kept in the school-room, Writing and working out sums; All week it's like being in prison, And I'm glad when Saturday comes.

—New York Independent.



THE ORIOLE'S SONG.

Tangled and green the orchard way, Breath of blossoms, and waft of breeze; Dew-wet vistas of breaking day, Drifted snow on the drooping trees.

Through branching bloom, and mist of green, Now here, now there, upon the wing, Flame of oriole faintly seen— Vision fair of the winsome spring.

A low-drawn cadence, thrilling, low, A call, a charm unto the ear; A forest brook in golden flow, A love song to the waking year.

And all the gladness of a young May Is touching with pathos at the strain; The melting music of the lay Our heart's deep secrets wakes again.

—Sheila.



THE RED-HEADED WOODPECKER.

BY FLORENCE MERRIAM BAILEY.

The National Association of Audubon Societies Educational Leaflet No. 43.

The Woodpeckers are a band of foresters most of whom spend their lives saving trees. Many of them do their work hidden in the dark forests, but the Red-heads hunt largely out in plain sight of passers-by. Why? Because, while they devour enough enemies of the trees to deserve the name of foresters, they are particularly fond of vegetable foods and large beetles found in the open.

Watch one of the handsome Red-headed birds on a fence. Down he drops to pick up an ant or a grasshopper from the ground; then up he shoots to catch a wasp or beetle in the air. Nor does he stop with fly-catching. Nutting—beech-nutting—is one of his favorite pastimes; while berries, fruits and seeds are all to his taste. If, in his appreciation of the good things that man offers, the Red-head on rare occasions takes a bit more cultivated fruit or berries than his rightful share, his attention should be diverted by planting some of his favorite wild fruits, such as dogwood, mulberry, elderberry, chokecherry, or wild black cherry.

But, in judging of what is a bird's fair share of man's crops, many things should be considered. Food is bought for the Canary and other house pets; and many people who do not care for caged pets buy food for the wild birds summer and winter, to bring them to their houses. Flowers cost something, too. But without birds and flowers, what would the country be? Before raising his hand against a bird, a man should think of many things. A man who is unfair to a bird is unfair to himself.

[Sidenote: Feeding Habits.]

It would be a stingy man, indeed, who would begrudge the Woodpeckers their acorns and beechnuts. While the leaves are still green on the trees, the Redheads discover the beechnuts and go to work. "It is a truly beautiful sight," Dr. Merriam says, "to watch these magnificent birds creeping about after the manner of Warblers, among the small branches and twigs, which bend low with their weight, while picking and husking the tender nuts."

The nuts are not always eaten on the spot, for, like their famous California cousins, the Redheads store up food for winter use. All sorts of odd nooks and crannies serve the Redheads for storehouses—knot-holes, pockets under patches of raised bark, cracks between shingles and fences, and even railroad ties. Sometimes, instead of nuts, grasshoppers and other eatables are put away in storage. The wise birds at times make real caches, concealing their stores by hammering down pieces of wood or bark over them.

Beechnuts are such a large part of the fall and winter food of the Redheads in some localities, that, like the gray squirrels, the birds are common in good beechnut winters and absent in others. Cold and snow do not trouble them, if they have plenty to eat, for, as Major Bendire says, many of them "winter along our northern border, in certain years, when they can find an abundant supply of food." In fact, in the greater part of the eastern states the Redhead is "a rather regular resident," but in the western part of its range "It appears to migrate pretty regularly," so that it is rare to see one "North of latitude 40 deg., in winter." The western boundary of the Redhead's range is the Rocky Mountains, but east of the mountains it breeds from Manitoba and northern New York south to the Gulf of Mexico; though it is a rare bird in eastern New England.

[Sidenote: Migration.]

In sections where this erratic Woodpecker migrates, it leaves its nesting-grounds early in October, and returns the latter part of April or the beginning of May. Before too much taken up with the serious business of life, the Redhead goes gaily about, as Major Bendire says, "frolicking and playing hide-and-seek with its mate, and when not so engaged, amusing itself by drumming on some resonant dead limb, or on the roof and sides of houses, barns, etc." For though, like other drummers, the Woodpeckers are not found in the front ranks of the orchestra, they beat a royal tattoo that may well express many fine feelings.

When the musical spring holiday is over and the birds have chosen a tree for the nest, they hew out a pocket in a trunk or branch, anywhere from eight to eighty feet from the ground. When the young hatch, there comes a happy day for the looker-on who, by kind intent and unobtrusive way, has earned the right to watch the lovely birds flying back and forth, caring for their brood.

[Sidenote: Nest.]

And then, at last, come the days when the gray-headed youngsters, from hanging out of the window, boldly open their wings and launch into the air. Anxious times these are for old birds,—times when the watcher's admiration may be roused by heroic deeds of parental love; for many a parent bird fairly flaunts in the face of the enemy, as if trying to say, "Kill me; spare my young!"

One family of Redheads once gave me a delightful three weeks. When the old birds were first discovered, one was on a stub in a meadow. When joined by its mate, as the farmer was coming with oxen and hayrack to take up the rows of haycocks that led down the field, the pair flew slowly ahead along a line of locusts, pecking quietly at the bark of each tree before flying on. At the foot of the meadow they flew over to a small grove in the adjoining pasture.

As it was July, it was easy to draw conclusions. And when I went to the grove to investigate, the pair were so much alarmed that they at once corroborated my conclusions. Did I mean harm? Why had I come? One of them leaned far down across a dead limb and inspected me, rattling and bowing nervously; the other stationed itself on the back of a branch over which it peered at me with one eye. Both of them cried krit-tar-rah every time I ventured to take a step. As they positively would not commit themselves as to which one of the many Woodpecker holes in sight belonged to them I had to make a tour of the grove.



On its edge was a promising old stub with a number of big, round holes and, picking up a stick, I rapped on the trunk. Both birds were over my head in an instant, rattling and scolding till you would have thought I had come to chop down the tree and carry off the young before their eyes. I felt injured, but having found the nest could afford to watch from a distance.

It was not long before the old birds began feeding their young. They would fly to the stub and stand under the nest while rousing the brood by rattling into the hole, which had the odd effect of muffling their voices. When, as they flew back and forth a Yellow-hammer stopped in passing, they drove him off in a hurry. They wanted that grove to themselves.

On my next visits, if, in spite of many precautions, they discovered me, they flew to dead tree tops to watch me, or startled me by an angry quarr' quarr' quarr' over my head. When they found that I made no attempt to go near the nest, however, they finally put up with me and went about their business.

After being at the nest together they would often fly off in opposite directions, to hunt on different beats. If one hunted in the grove, the other would go out to the rail fence. A high maple was a favorite lookout and hunting-ground for the one who stayed in the grove, and cracks in the bark afforded good places to wedge insects into. The bird who hunted on the fence, if suspecting a grub in a rail, would stand motionless as a Robin on the grass, apparently listening; but when the right moment came would drill down rapidly and spear the grub. If an insect passed that way the Redhead would make a sally into the air for it, sometimes shooting straight up for fifteen or twenty feet and coming down almost as straight; at others flying out and back in an ellipse, horizontally or obliquely up in the air or down over the ground. But oftener than all, perhaps, it flew down onto the ground to pick up something which its sharp eyes had discovered there. Once it brought up some insect, hit it against the rail, gave a business-like hop and flew off to feed its young.

The young left the nest between my visits, but when, chancing to focus my glass on a passing Woodpecker I discovered that its head was gray instead of red, I knew for a certainty what had happened. The fledgling seemed already much at home on its wings. It flew out into the air, caught a white miller and went back to the tree with it, shaking it and then rapping it vigorously against a branch before venturing to swallow it. When the youngster flew, I followed rousing a Robin who made such an outcry that one of the old Redheads flew over in alarm. "Kik-a-rik, kik-a-rik," it cried as it hurried from tree to tree, trying to keep an eye on me while looking for the youngster. Neither of us could find it for some time, but after looking in vain over the west side of a big tree I rounded the trunk and found it calmly sitting on a branch on the east side—which goes to prove that it is never safe to say a Woodpecker isn't on a tree, till you have seen both sides!

The old Redhead found the lost fledgling about the time that I did and flew over to it with what looked like a big grub. At the delectable sight, the youngster dropped all its airs of independence, and with weak infantile cries turned and opened wide its bill!

Two days later I found two birds that may have been father and son, on the side of a gladpole, out in the big world together. The old bird's head glowed crimson in the strong sunlight, and it was fortunate indeed that only friends were by.

The striking tricolor makes the Redheads such good targets that they are in especial danger from human enemies and need loyal, valiant defenders wherever they live. And what a privilege it is to have birds of such interesting habits and beautiful plumage in your neighborhood! How the long country roads are enlivened, how the green fields are lit up, as one of the brilliant birds rises from a fence-post and flies over them! In the city, it is rare good luck, indeed, to have a pair nest in an oak where you can watch them and even a passing glimpse or an occasional visit is something to be thankful for.

"There's the Redhead!" you exclaim exultantly, when a loud tattoo beats on your city roof in spring. And "There's the Redhead!" you cry with delight, as a soft kikarik comes from a leafless oak you are passing in winter; and the city street, so dull and uninteresting before, is suddenly illumined by the sight.

—Reprinted from Bird-lore.



FOUR LEAF CLOVERS.

I know a place where the sun is like gold, And the cherry blooms burst with snow, And down underneath is the loveliest nook, Where the four-leaf clovers grow.

One leaf is for hope, and one is for faith, And one is for love, you know, But God put another in for luck— If you search, you will find where they grow.

But you must have hope, and you must have faith, You must love and be strong, and so If you work, if you wait, you will find the place Where the four-leaf clovers grow.

—Ella Higginson.



THE FLOWER FOLK.

Hope is like a harebell trembling from its birth, Love is like a rose the joy of all the earth; Faith is like a lily lifted high and white, Love is like a lovely rose, the world's delight; Harebells and sweet lilies show a thornless growth But the rose with all its thorns excels them both.

—Christina G. Rossetti.



ARBOR DAY MARCH.

AIR—"MARCHING THROUGH GEORGIA."

Celebrate the Arbor Day With march and song and cheer, For the season comes to us But once in every year; Should we not remember it, And make the memory dear, Memories sweet for this May day.

CHORUS.

Hurrah! Hurrah! The Arbor Day is here; Hurrah! Hurrah! It gladdens every year, So we plant a young tree on blithesome Arbor Day, While we are singing for gladness.



ARBOR DAY SONG.

(AIR: HOLD THE FORT.)

Friends and parents gather with us, In our school today, Thoughts of grove and tangled wildwoods, In our minds hold sway.

CHORUS.

Spare the trees, Oh thoughtless woodman, Hew but what you need, They give balm to vagrant breezes, For their lives we plead.

Giant oaks in sunny pastures Cast their pleasant shade Maples clad in gold and crimson Cheer the darkened glade.

Lofty firs and murmuring pine trees Shading mountain's crest, Are the growth of weary ages; For them we protest.

Heralded in leafy banners, Season's four we greet; Every bough a sacred temple For the song birds sweet.

—Iowa Special Days.



WE LOVE THE TREES.

(TUNE: "THERE'S MUSIC IN THE AIR.")

We love the grand old trees, With the Oak, their royal king, And the Maple, forest queen, We to her homage bring; And the Elm, with stately form, Long withstanding wind and storm, Pine, low whispering to the breeze, O, we love the grand old trees!

We love the grand old trees, The Cedar, bright above the snow, The Poplar, straight and tall, And the Willow, weeping low, Butternut and Walnut, too, Hickory, so staunch and true, Basswood, blooming for the bees, O, we love the grand old trees!

We love the grand old trees, The Tulip, branching broad and high, The Beech, with shining robe, And the Birch, so sweet and shy, Aged Chestnuts, fair to see, Holly, bright with Christmas glee, Laurel, crown for victories, O, we love the grand old trees!

—Ada S. Sherwood, in Journal of Education.



RECITATION.

Do you know the trees by name When you see them growing In the fields or in the woods? They are well worth knowing.

Watch them in the early spring, When their buds are swelling; Watch each tiny little leaf Leave its little dwelling.

Watch them later, when their leaves Everywhere are showing; Soon you'll know the different trees When you see them growing.

—Selected.



GOIN' BAREFOOTED.

It's more fun goin' barefoot than anythin' I know, There ain't a single 'nother thing that helps your feelin's so. Some days I stay in muvver's room, a-gettin' in her way, An' when I've bothered her so much, she sez, "Oh, run and play!" I say, "Kin I go barefoot?" En she sez, "If y' choose." Nen I alwuz wanter holler when I'm pullin' off my shoes!

It's fun a-going barefoot when yer playin' any game, 'Cause robbers would be noisy, an' Indians awful tame Unless they had their shoes off when they crep' up in the night, An' folks can't know they're comin' till they get right close in sight. An' I'm surely goin' barefoot every day when I get old, An' haven't got a nurse to say I'll catch my death of cold.

An' if you're goin' barefoot, yer want to go outdoors; Y' can't stretch out an' dig yer heels in stupid, hardwood floors, Like you can dig 'em in th' dirt. An' where th' long grass grows, Th' blades feel kinder tickley and cool between yer toes. So when I'm pullin' off my shoes I'm mighty 'fraid I'll cough, 'Cause then I know Ma'd stop me 'fore I got my stockin's off.

If y' often go 'round barefoot there's lots o' things to know— Of how to curl yer feet on stones, so they won't hurt y' so; An' when th' grass is stickley, an' pricks y' at a touch, Jes' plank yer feet down solid, an' it don't hurt half so much; I lose my hat mos' every day—I wish I did my shoes; Er else I wisht I was so poor I hadn't none to lose!

—Burges Johnson, in "Harper's Magazine."



The year's at the spring, And day's at the morn; Morning's at seven; The hill-sides dew pearled: The larks on the wing: The snails on the thorn; God's in his heaven— All's right with the world!

—Browning.



In fact there is nothing that keeps its youth So far as I know, but a tree and truth.

—O. W. Holmes.



There's never a leaf or a blade too mean To be some creature's palace.

—Lowell.



TIME TO RISE.

A birdie with a yellow bill Hopped upon the window sill. Cocked his shining eye and said: "Ain't you 'shamed, you sleepy-head!"



Flowers are the sweetest things God ever made and forgot to put a soul into.

—Beecher.



The best verses I have printed are the trees I have planted.

—Holmes.



There was never mystery But 'tis figured in the flowers; Was never secret history But birds tell it in the bowers.

—Emerson.



THE WISEACRES OF THE FOREST.

From Nature and Culture.

So many have an idea that bird-life does not blossom out until the flowers do, and that our shy neighbors do not wake to life and joy and song until the warm breezes of spring have chased to the realm of memory winter's cold and snow. Several weeks of wandering through the woods during the months of January and February taught me that to him who has time to devote, and that amount of patience which enables a hunter to rise at three in the morning, crawl through wet, tangled swamp-grass in the cold and snow, and then sit shivering for hours in a "hide" awaiting the ducks, there will be shots, camera shots, replete with interest and full of instruction; revelations of a world's population little known because of their unobtrusive life. They who lead the "simple life" may not make as much stir in the world as some others we know: but never make the mistake of thinking the life one lacking in interest. These "little journeys" of mine were for the purpose of prying into the secrets of our friends "the owls." As far back as the uncovered picture-writing of the ancients, Mr. Owl has been the synonym for wisdom. Does he deserve the title?

As company lends interest, I was accompanied by a friend who took equal delight in these jaunts; and off we started one fourteenth of January. For some six miles we tramped along the Kaw Valley, in Kansas, ever on the lookout for trees with large hollow trunks or broken limbs. Now, if any one believes an owl is entirely a night-bird, let him follow in my footsteps, and he will learn a thing or two. These are some of the mysteries of "the wild." Entering a spot of the forest where the banks of the stream were lined thickly on both sides with trees, both large and small, we seated ourselves for a time to rest and to watch. Like Egyptian darkness, the quiet was of a kind to be felt, but it did not long remain this way. Suddenly the strange quiet was broken by a fierce, angry call of a crow. Now, where did he come from, and why this display of anger? Possibly at our intrusion; yet this could hardly be, as it was far too early in the season for the crow to be nesting. Before we had time to settle our question the stillness was further broken by several shrill answers, and into the branchy arena came other crows. These were followed by others, and still others. Surely we were not the cause of all this disturbance. Finally there were no less than two dozen crows flying around a large tree with a broken top, and making a clatter that would have put a boiler factory to shame. One could easily imagine it to be a congress of crows exorcised over an insurgency move and demanding the previous question. Then came the solution of the mystery. In dignified yet rapid flight a huge owl dropped from a limb on the other side of the stump, and with a flight as silent as the grave winged her way into the deeper woods followed by that rabble of noisy, cawing crows. It seemed strange that the owl did not turn upon her tormentors; she who had talons long, strong, and sharp; a beak that could easily make its impression upon a pine stick; but her reputed wisdom here led her to know that safety lay in flight, as her size would be her undoing; that the crow would find many points of attack ere she could turn around. Safety lay in flight and shelter where the crows could not reach her, and would finally caw themselves hoarse and tired, and at last depart. Many times have I watched these actions on the part of the owls and crows, and always with the same results. Not alone the larger, but also the smaller owls adopt the same course of action to escape their tormentors. This leads me to believe that this partly accounts for their foraging at night.



We now turned our attention to the tree—truly a monarch of the "forest primeval"—a huge sycamore, about five feet in diameter at the base, with few limbs to aid in climbing. But we simply must get up to that hollow, and after much effort success was ours; and there, deep down in the hole, on a bed of warm chips and half-rotted punky wood, all nicely cuddled up, lay two little fluffy white baby owls—young hoot owls. As it takes about four weeks for incubation, and these babies were fully a week old, nesting must have begun at least in the middle of December. Much depends on the winter; this one having been very mild. In fact, I have noticed that birds are quite accurate weather prophets, were we only skilled enough to read their predictions. But it is always safe, I find, to be early in the field. And now came our first disappointment. It was impossible to secure a picture of the nest and baby owls, owing to the unfavorable position of the tree and nest; so, taking a farewell look at the place, we returned, hoping for better luck next time.



The following week we were out and at it again, and were more fortunate in that we discovered the home of another owl, similar in shape, but smaller, and differently marked. This was the barred owl, so called because of its markings. Here, again, the nest was up quite a ways, and difficult to get to. After much trouble we cut down a small tree and hoisted it into the larger tree so that it came near the hole where the nest was. This enabled me to get above the nest, so that I could swing down to the hole by a rope and get a view of the nest and contents. After many attempts I succeeded in snapping two or three negatives, one of which turned out fairly good and accompanies this article. Every move I made while taking the pictures was punctuated by hoots of anger and disgust by the mother owl, who had flown to a nearby tree, until she aroused the attention of some ever-observant crows; then she had all she could do taking care of herself and getting rid of her tormentors. If ever a free matinee in birdland was billed, it occurred that afternoon.

The weeks now slowly passed without further success. One must have patience, much patience, in birdland. It may take years to secure what will prove satisfactory views of some species. Many snaps, when taken, prove undesirable after development, and each week adds to the uncertainty of finding anything "at home" when next you come. While the percentage of successful incubation is fairly large, yet the numerous enemies of the feathered tribe make the uncertainty of life in birdland quite noticeable.



The time was now ripe for us to turn our attention to the little screech owls; a small but interesting and valuable species. Here I found a marked difference. Any small hole or cavity suits their fancy. Generally speaking, it must be small enough to exclude larger birds or animals that might prey upon them; but at times their boasted wisdom seemingly forsakes them, and they take up with any habitation. I have known them to nest in boxes in shade-trees and in bird-houses under the eaves of the barn. On this trip I found a fresh set of eggs in an old hollow stump formerly made by and used as the nesting-place of the yellow-shafted woodpecker. Mrs. Owl was at home, and very much disliked being disturbed. Unlike the larger owls, she refused to fly away, and I had to lift her repeatedly from the eggs that I might take the picture. As sometimes happens, the negative was a failure; and returning the next week to try for better luck, I found safely curled up within the cavity an opossum. The eggs and mother bird were not in evidence, and the "possum" told no tales. Similar experiences have often occurred to me when I have returned for better views or to follow up a certain line of study.

The next nest of this species I found in a large hollow limb, which in falling had lodged crosswise in a tree. It was rather a queer place for a screech owl, but, I presume, suited her fancy. However, it was favorably located, and if successful I could at least follow up the process of nature; and this is just what I did. The only change made was in bringing the eggs, and later the young, forward from the recess of the cavity to insure better light. I wished to also take the parent bird upon the nest; but in this case they were perverse, and refused to be taken. One of the birds decided that he did not wish to be taken, and after repeated trials I concluded he knew best, and gave over the attempt. I also took the most courageous one and posed him on the stump of the tree. The result is not altogether satisfactory, but is interesting.



My next acquisition was the long-eared owl. With camera and tripod strapped upon the bicycle I started upon a ride of some fifteen miles, which brought me to an old nursery, abandoned, overgrown, and wild. Here, in a much-neglected fir grove I found the nests and eggs of this variety. The first taken was in a pine. Climbing an adjacent tree, I located myself about five feet from the nest, and after carefully securing and focussing the camera, secured the view. My second I found later in the day in an apple tree. The tree was in bloom, but not leaved out, and offered but scant hide or protection for the nest. Indeed I, at first, took it for an old crow's nest, and was about to pass on, when up over the rim of the nest bobbed two long ear-like tufts—whence the bird gets its name. Approaching the tree, the mother quietly left, and as long as I was in that vicinity I saw nothing further of her. The long-eared owl is not very particular in the choice of her nesting-place. They will often build in a communal manner, several pairs selecting a fir grove or other suitable place; and here you will find the nests quite near together. Again, they will be isolated in location; one here, and another quite a distance away, as the notion strikes them. The nest also seems to vary with their state of mind. At times they will build a very elaborate structure of their own; then, again, they take up with an old crow's nest or the summer nest of a squirrel, and with very little patching up make this answer their purpose. Because of this variability on their part, it is not an easy matter to locate an occupied nest.



One more, and I am done with the owls. The securing of this was of great interest to me, not alone for the sake of the picture, but because it settled two questions on which I had long been in doubt. At the time of which I now write I was living in an Indian school, and previous to this all my ideas of Indians and Indian life had been gathered from Cooper. Near the school was a large village of prairie dogs covering something like ten acres of ground. One day I saw a small species of owl flying around and lighting on the different mounds. I immediately knew it to be the burrowing owl; but where among all those thousand and more holes to dig for her was a question I could not answer. To assist me, I brought the supposed craft of the red man's children to bear; but of no avail. Not one of over two hundred could give me the least ray of light. Then I got down to principles and discovered that there were some mounds around which were scattered butterflies' and grasshoppers' legs and wings, parts of frogs and toads, and the little pellets usually ejected by owls in the process of digestion. I also found that these mounds were invariably covered by an animal compost gathered from the surrounding prairie. I resolved to put my theory to the test by digging into one of these holes. Here the Indian boy was a great help, as he thoroughly knew his verb "to dig." I followed the hole down through hardpan to a depth of three feet, and back for over ten feet, where at last I found Mrs. Owl sitting on her nest of fresh eggs. Here I took her picture while her large round eyes followed my every move as I focused and snapped her. It was while investigating this subject that I also exploded a somewhat common belief that prairie dogs, owls, and rattlesnakes live together in the same quarters in perfect amity. This is not the case. If they are ever found together it is either an accident unknown to one or the other party, or one of three has purposely crawled into the other's home for deeds dark and evil.

Altogether the experiences gained amply repaid me for the effort spent. These visits to the silent ones were payments ample enough in themselves, but my closer acquaintance with a very interesting family made them doubly so. I find that the owl is one of our best and most valuable friends, destroying during a season much of the troublesome animal population that injures the agricultural interests of the land. If careless boys and indifferent "others" could get this fact well grounded and use some other mark in target practice, all parties would be better off and much good gained. To take any life is ill, but to take good life is crime.



THE JAYS.

"I know an old man, His name is Jay, He wears a blue coat, And a hat of gray.

He has a nice nest High up in a tree, Where sits his dear mate Content as can be.

There are four blue eggs In the little brown nest, Which will soon be baby birds Blue, like the rest."



ADDRESS OF THE BIRDS.

AN EXERCISE FOR FIVE PUPILS.

The Robin—

"I am a robin, very brown And big and plump and smooth and round. My breast is pretty, bright and red And see this top-knot on my head! I heard the boys awhile ago Shooting robins o'er the snow, And flew away in trembling fear And thought I'd hide from them in here.

The Blue Bird—

I'm a blue bird. Don't you see Me sitting on this apple-tree, I left my nest an hour ago To look for bugs and worms, you know; And now I know the very thing— That while I'm waiting I will sing, Oh! beautiful and balmy spring.

The Woodpecker—

I'm a woodpecker—a bird Whose sound through wood and dale is heard. I tap, tap, tap, with noisy glee, To test the bark of every tree. I saw a rainbow stretching gay, Across the sky, the other day; And some one said, "Good-bye to rain, The woodpecker has come again."

The Lark—

I'm the lark and early rise To greet the sun-god of the skies, And upright cleave the freshening air, To sail in regions still more fair. Who could not soar on lusty wing, His Maker's praises thus to sing?

The Nightingale—

In music I excel the lark, She comes at dawn, I come at dark, And when the stars are shining bright, I sing the praises of the night.

In Concert—

Oh! in a chorus sweet we'll sing, And wake the echoes of the spring."



LITTLE BY LITTLE.

"Little by little," the acorn said, As it slowly sank in its mossy bed, "I am improving every day, Hidden deep in the earth away." Little by little each day it grew; Little by little it sipped the dew; Downward it sent out a threadlike root; Up in the air sprung a tiny shoot, Day after day, and year after year, Little by little the leaves appear; And the slender branches spread far and wide, Till the mighty oak is the forest's pride.

"Little by little," said the thoughtful boy, "Moment by moment, I'll well employ, Learning a little every day, And not misspending my time in play; Whatever I do I will do it well. Little by little, I'll learn to know The treasured wisdom of long ago; And one of these days, perhaps, will see That the world will be the better for me."

—Selected.



A LITTLE POLLYWOG.

"A tiny little pollywog, And little brothers three, Lived in the water near a log, As happy as could be. A-swimming, swimming all the day, A-sleeping all the night, And trying, though they were so gay, To do just what was right; A-growing, growing all the while, Because they did their best; But I am afraid that you will smile When I tell you the rest.

One morning, sitting on the log, They looked in mute surprise; Four legs had every pollywog, Where two had met their eyes. Their mother, letting fall a tear, Said, "Oh, my pollywogs, It can't be you that sitting here!" For all of them were frogs. And with their legs they've grown some lungs; So you just wait and see. In summer time their little tongues Will sing 'Kachink' with glee."

—School Education.



AN ARBOR DAY TREE.

Dear little tree that we plant today What will you be when we're old and gray? "The savings bank of the squirrel and mouse, For robin and wren an apartment house, The dressing-room of the butterfly's ball, The locust's and katydid's concert hall, The school-boy's ladder in pleasant June, The school-girl's tent in the July noon. And my leaves shall whisper them merrily, A tale of the children who planted me."

—From The Intelligence.



THE ROBIN AND THE FLOWER.

A Robin once sat in the bright winter's sun, A foolish red robin was he, For he sang a sweet song that springtime had come When the day was as cold as could be.

So gay was his song of the warmth of the hour, So merrily babbled the sound, That it stole through the dream of a dear little flower Who was slumbering under the ground.

The sleeper awakened, soft lifted the sod And harkened the robin's sweet song, Full glad was her heart and thankful to God That winter so quickly had gone.

The robin still sang and the dear little flower Unfolded her petals of pink:— "I'll hold up my chalice," she said, "for a shower That from me my robin may drink."

The singer flew quickly to welcome his love,— His love that was faltering low:— Oh, where was the warmth from the heaven above? Instead of a shower there was snow.

Then robin quick covered her o'er with his wing, "Don't leave me, I love you," he cried: And he kissed her so tenderly, poor little thing, But the blossom, his loved one, had died.

Red robin still sits in the bright winter's sun, But a sorrowing robin is he; No longer he sings that the springtime has come When the day is as cold as can be.

—Charles A. Myall.



Give fools their gold and knaves their power; Let fortune's bubbles rise and fall; Who sows a field, or trains a flower Or plants a tree is more than all. For he who blesses most is blest; And God and man shall own his worth Who toils to leave as his bequest An added beauty to the earth.

—Whittier.



BIRD PUZZLE.

1. There's a bird whose name tells if he flies fast or slow,

2. One which boys use when with long strides they go,

3. There is one that tells tales, although he can't sing,

4. And one who flies high, but is held by a string.

5. By one a high rank in the army is held;

6. There's another whose name with one letter is spelled.

7. There is one that a farmer in harvest would use;

8. And one you can easily fool if you choose.

9. What bird, at dessert, is it useful to hold?

10. And which in the chimney place oft hung of old?

11. Which bird wears a bit of sky in its dress?

12. Which one always stands in the corner at chess?

13. There is one built a church, of London the pride;

14. We have one when we talk with a friend by our side.

15. What bird would its bill find useful at tea,

16. And which would its tail use to steer with at sea?

17. Which proudly a musical instrument wears?

18. And which the same name as a small island bears?

19. Which bird is called foolish and stupid and silly?

20. And which always wanting to punish poor Billy?

21. Which bird is an artisan, works at his trade?

22. And which is the stuff of which flags are made?

23. One, we're told by the poet, at Heaven's gate sings;

24. There's one which in Holland the new baby brings.

25. What bird have we with us in eating and drinking?

26. One, used for a fence, you can say without thinking.

27. What bird is a scoffer, a scorner, a jest?

28. Which one is too lazy to build her own nest?

29. From a high wind at evening one name is inferred.

30. Guess these, and you're wise as Minerva's own bird.



ANSWERS TO BIRD PUZZLE.

1. Swift

2. Stilt

3. Tatler

4. Kite

5. Adjutant

6. Jay

7. Thrasher

8. Gull

9. Nut-cracker

10. Crane

11. Blue Bird

12. Rook

13. Wren

14. Chat

15. Spoon-Bill

16. Rudder-duck

17. Lyre-bird

18. Canary

19. Loon

20. Whippoorwill

21. Weaver

22. Bunting

23. Lark

24. Stork

25. Swallow

26. Rail

27. Mocking bird

28. Cuckoo

29. Nightingale

30. Owl



THE CATBIRD.

He sits on the branch of yon blossoming tree, This mad-cap cousin of Robin and Thrush, And sings without ceasing the whole morning long; Now wild, now tender, the wayward song That flows from his soft gray, fluttering throat; But oft he stops in his sweetest note, And shaking a flower from the blossoming bough, Drawls out: "Mi-eu, mi-ow!"

—Edith M. Thomas.



THE MOCKING BIRD.

He didn't know much music When first he come along; An' all the birds went wonderin' Why he didn't sing a song.

They primed their feathers in the sun, An' sung their sweetest notes; An' music jest come on the run From all their purty throats!

But still that bird was silent In summer time an' fall; He jest set still an' listened An' he wouldn't sing at all!

But one night when them songsters Was tired out an' still, An' the wind sighed down the valley An' went creepin' up the hill;

When the stars was all a-tremble In the dreamin' fields o' blue, An' the daisy in the darkness Felt the fallin' o' the dew,—

There come a sound o' melody No mortal ever heard, An' all the birds seemed singin' From the throat o' one sweet bird!

Then the other birds went playin' In a land too fur to call; Fer there warn't no use in stayin' When one bird could sing fer all!

—Frank L. Stanton.

THE END