Her grandson, playing at marbles, stopped,

And cruel in sport, as boys will be, Tossed a stone at the bird, who hopped

From bough to bough in the apple-tree.

"Nay!" said the grandmother; "have you not heard,

My poor bad boy! of the fiery pit,
And how, drop by drop, this merciful bird

Carries the water that quenches it?

"He brings cool dew in his little bill,

And lets it fall on the souls of sin;
You can see the mark on his red breast still
Of fires that scorch as he drops it in.

"My poor Bron rhuddyn ! my breast-burned bird,
Singing so sweetly from limb to limb,
Very dear to the heart of our Lord

Is he who pities the lost, like him!"

"Amen!" I said to the beautiful myth; “Sing, bird of God, in my heart as well; Each good thought is a drop wherewith To cool and lessen the fires of hell.

"Prayers of love like rain-drops fall, Tears of pity are cooling dew,

And dear to the heart of our Lord are all Who suffer like him in the good they do!"

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

THE BOBOLINK.

BOBOLINK! that in the meadow,
Or beneath the orchard's shadow,
Keepest up a constant rattle
Joyous as my children's prattle,
Welcome to the north again!
Welcome to mine ear thy strain,
Welcome to mine eye the sight
Of thy buff, thy black and white!
Brighter plumes may greet the sun
By the banks of Amazon;
Sweeter tones may weave the spell
Of enchanting Philomel;
But the tropic bird would fail,
And the English nightingale,
If we should compare their worth
With thine endless, gushing mirth.

When the ides of May are past,
June and summer nearing fast,
While from depths of blue above
Comes the mighty breath of love,
Calling out each bud and flower
With resistless, secret power, -
Waking hope and fond desire,
Kindling the erotic fire,

Filling youths' and maidens' dreams
With mysterious, pleasing themes;
Then, amid the sunlight clear
Floating in the fragrant air,

Thou dost fill each heart with pleasure

By thy glad ecstatic measure.

A single note, so sweet and low,
Like a full heart's overflow,
Forms the prelude; but the strain
Gives us no such tone again;
For the wild and saucy song
Leaps and skips the notes among,
With such quick and sportive play,
Ne'er was madder, merrier lay.

Gayest songster of the spring!
Thy melodies before me bring
Visions of some dream-built land,
Where, by constant zephyrs fanned,
I might walk the livelong day,
Embosomed in perpetual May.
Nor care nor fear thy bosom knows;
For thee a tempest never blows;
But when our northern summer's o'er,
By Delaware's or Schuylkill's shore
The wild rice lifts its airy head,
And royal feasts for thee are spread.
And when the winter threatens there,
Thy tireless wings yet own no fear,
But bear thee to more southern coasts,
Far beyond the reach of frosts.

Up flies Bobolincon, perching on an apple-tree, Startled by his rival's song, quickened by his

raillery,

Soon he spies the rogue afloat, curveting in the air,

the rushes O!

But wait a week, till flowers are cheery,—wait a week, and, ere you marry,

Be sure of a house wherein to tarry! Wadolink, Whiskodink, Tom Denny, wait, wait, wait!"

Every one's a funny fellow; every one's a little mellow;

Follow, follow, follow, follow, o'er the hill and in the hollow!

Merrily, merrily, there they hie; now they rise and now they fly;

-

They cross and turn, and in and out, and down in the middle, and wheel about, With a 66 'Phew, shew, Wadolincon! listen to me, Bobolincon!

Kiss her! Kiss, kiss her! Who will see?
Only we three! we three! we three!"

Under garlands of drooping vines,
Through dim vistas of sweet-breathed pines,

Past wide meadow-fields, lately mowed,
Wandered the indolent country road.
The lovers followed it, listening still,
And, loitering slowly, as lovers will,

Entered a low-roofed bridge that lay,
Dusky and cool, in their pleasant way.
Under its arch a smooth, brown stream
Silently glided, with glint and gleam,

Shaded by graceful elms that spread
Their verdurous canopy overhead,
The stream so narrow, the boughs so wide,
They met and mingled across the tide.

Alders loved it, and seemed to keep
Patient watch as it lay asleep,

And the flitting form of the dragon-fly,

Save where the swift-winged swallow played
In and out in the sun and shade,

With radiant faces and hearts in tune,

Two fond lovers in dreaming mood
Threaded a rural solitude.

Wholly happy, they only knew
That the earth was bright and the sky was blue,

That light and beauty and joy and song
Charmed the way as they passed along:
The air was fragrant with woodland scents;
The squirrel frisked on the roadside fence;

And hovering near them, "Chee, chee, chink?"

Queried the curious bobolink, Pausing and peering with sidelong head, As saucily questioning all they said;

While the ox-eye danced on its slender
stem,

And all glad nature rejoiced with them.
Over the odorous fields were strown
Wilting windrows of grass new-mown,

And rosy billows of clover bloom
Surged in the sunshine and breathed per-
fume.

Dipped, and dimpled its clear dark face.

Fluttering lightly from brink to brink
Followed the garrulous bobolink,

Rallying loudly, with mirthful din,
The pair who lingered unseen within.
And when from the friendly bridge at last
Into the road beyond they passed,

Again beside them the tempter went, Keeping the thread of his argument · "Kiss her! kiss her! chink-a-chee-chee!

I'll not mention it! Don't mind me!

I'll be sentinel - I can see

All around from this tall birch-tree!"
But ah! they noted - nor deemed it strange —
In his rollicking chorus a trifling change:

"Do it! do it!" with might and main
Warbled the telltale "Do it again!”

ROBERT OF LINCOLN.

ANONYMOUS.

MERRILY Swinging on brier and weed,
Near to the nest of his little dame,
Over the mountain-side or mead,
Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;

Snug and safe is that nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers. Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed,
Wearing a bright black wedding coat;
White are his shoulders and white his crest,
Hear him call in his merry note:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;

Look, what a nice new coat is mine,
Sure there was never a bird so fine.
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife,

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life,

Broods in the grass while her husband sings: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Brood, kind creature; you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here. Chee, chee, chee.

Modest and shy as a nun is she,

One weak chirp is her only note, Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat : Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Never was I afraid of man; Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. Chee, chee, chee.

Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight! There as the mother sits all day,

Robert is singing with all his might: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nice good wife, that never goes out, Keeping house while I frolic about. Chee, chee, chee.

Soon as the little ones chip the shell
Six wide mouths are open for food;
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,
Gathering seed for the hungry brood.
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;
This new life is likely to be
Hard for a gay young fellow like me.
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work, and silent with care;

Off is his holiday garment laid,

Half forgotten that merry air,

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Nobody knows but my mate and I Where our nest and our nestlings lie. Chee, chee, chee.

Summer wanes; the children are grown ; Fun and frolic no more he knows; Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone ; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again.

Chee, chee, chee.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THE HEATH-COCK.

Good morrow to thy sable beak
And glossy plumage dark and sleek,
Thy crimson moon and azure eye,
Cock of the heath, so wildly shy:
I see thee slyly cowering through
That wiry web of silvery dew,
That twinkles in the morning air,
Like casements of my lady fair.

A maid there is in yonder tower,
Who, peeping from her early bower,
Half shows, like thee, her simple wile,
Her braided hair and morning smile.
The rarest things, with wayward will,
Beneath the covert hide them still;
The rarest things to break of day
Look shortly forth, and shrink away.

Up flies Bobolincon, perching on an apple-tree, Startled by his rival's song, quickened by his raillery,

Soon he spies the rogue afloat, curveting in the air,

beware!

"T is you that would a-wooing go, down among

the rushes O!

But wait a week, till flowers are cheery, -wait a week, and, ere you marry,

Be sure of a house wherein to tarry! Wadolink, Whiskodink, Tom Denny, wait, wait, wait!"

Every one's a funny fellow; every one's a little mellow;

Kiss her! Kiss, kiss her! Who will see?
Only we three! we three! we three!"

Under garlands of drooping vines,
Through dim vistas of sweet-breathed pines,
Past wide meadow-fields, lately mowed,
Wandered the indolent country road.
The lovers followed it, listening still,
And, loitering slowly, as lovers will,

Entered a low-roofed bridge that lay,
Dusky and cool, in their pleasant way.

in the hollow!

Merrily, merrily, there they hie; now they rise

and now they fly;

me, Bobolincon!

speedily doing,

That's merry and over with the bloom of the

clover!

And the flitting form of the dragon-fly,

Save where the swift-winged swallow played
In and out in the sun and shade,

With radiant faces and hearts in tune,

Two fond lovers in dreaming mood
Threaded a rural solitude.

Wholly happy, they only knew

That the earth was bright and the sky was blue,

That light and beauty and joy and song Charmed the way as they passed along : The air was fragrant with woodland seents; The squirrel frisked on the roadside fence;

And hovering near them, "Chee, chee, chink?"

Queried the curious bobolink, Pausing and peering with sidelong head, As saucily questioning all they said;

While the ox-eye danced on its slender
stem,

And all glad nature rejoiced with them.
Over the odorous fields were strown
Wilting windrows of grass new-mown,

And rosy billows of clover bloom
Surged in the sunshine and breathed per-

fume.

Dipped, and dimpled its clear dark face.

Fluttering lightly from brink to brink
Followed the garrulous bobolink,

Rallying loudly, with mirthful din,
The pair who lingered unseen within.
And when from the friendly bridge at last
Into the road beyond they passed,

Again beside them the tempter went, Keeping the thread of his argument -"Kiss her! kiss her! chink-a-chee-chee!

I'll not mention it! Don't mind me!
I'll be sentinel - I can see

All around from this tall birch-tree!" But ah! they noted - nor deemed it strangeIn his rollicking chorus a trifling change:

"Do it! do it!" with might and main Warbled the telltale "Do it again!"

ROBERT OF LINCOLN.

ANONYMOUS.

MERRILY Swinging on brier and weed,
Near to the nest of his little dame,
Over the mountain-side or mead,
Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;

Snug and safe is that nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers. Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed,
Wearing a bright black wedding coat;
White are his shoulders and white his crest,
Hear him call in his merry note:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Look, what a nice new coat is mine, Sure there was never a bird so fine. Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife,

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life,

Broods in the grass while her husband sings: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Brood, kind creature; you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here. Chee, chee, chee.

Modest and shy as a nun is she,

One weak chirp is her only note, Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat : Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Never was I afraid of man ;

Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. Chee, chee, chee.

Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight! There as the mother sits all day,

Robert is singing with all his might: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nice good wife, that never goes out, Keeping house while I frolic about. Chee, chee, chee.

Soon as the little ones chip the shell
Six wide mouths are open for food;
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,

Gathering seed for the hungry brood.
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;

This new life is likely to be
Hard for a gay young fellow like me.
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work, and silent with care;

Off is his holiday garment laid,

Half forgotten that merry air,

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink ;

Nobody knows but my mate and I Where our nest and our nestlings lie. Chee, chee, chee.

Summer wanes; the children are grown; Fun and frolic no more he knows; Robert of Lincoln 's a humdrum crone; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again.

Chee, chee, chee.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THE HEATH-COCK.

Good morrow to thy sable beak
And glossy plumage dark and sleek,
Thy crimson moon and azure eye,
Cock of the heath, so wildly shy:
I see thee slyly cowering through
That wiry web of silvery dew,
That twinkles in the morning air,
Like casements of my lady fair.

A maid there is in yonder tower,
Who, peeping from her early bower,
Half shows, like thee, her simple wile,
Her braided hair and morning smile.
The rarest things, with wayward will,
Beneath the covert hide them still;
The rarest things to break of day
Look shortly forth, and shrink away.

A fleeting moment of delight

I sunned me in her cheering sight;
As short, I ween, the time will be
That I shall parley hold with thee.
Through Snowdon's mist red beams the day,
The climbing herd-boy chants his lay,
The gnat-flies dance their sunny ring,
Thou art already on the wing.

PERSEVERANCE.

A SWALLOW in the spring

JOANNA BAILlie,

Came to our granary, and 'neath the eaves Essayed to make a nest, and there did bring Wet earth and straw and leaves.

Day after day she toiled

With patient art, but ere her work was crowned, Some sad mishap the tiny fabric spoiled,

And dashed it to the ground.