Voices for the Speechless Part 24

Where lay some hidden nest, They fluttered, peeped, and glistened forth, Sacred, serene, at rest.

I thought of thy saint, O Venice!

Who said in his tenderness, "I love thy birds, my Father dear, Our lives they cheer and bless!

"For love is not for men only; To the tiniest little things Give room to nestle in our hearts; Give freedom to all wings!"

And the lovely, still piazza, Seemed with his presence blest, And I, and the children, and the doves, Partakers of his rest.

LAURA WINTHROP JOHNSON.

SONG OF THE DOVE.

There sitteth a dove so white and fair, All on the lily spray, And she listeneth how, to Jesus Christ, The little children pray.

Lightly she spreads her friendly wings, And to heaven's gate hath sped, And unto the Father in heaven she bears The prayers which the children have said.

And back she comes from heaven's gate, And brings--that dove so mild-- From the Father in heaven, who hears her speak, A blessing for every child.

Then, children, lift up a pious prayer, It hears whatever you say, That heavenly dove, so white and fair, That sits on the lily spray.

FREDERIKA BREMER.

WHAT THE QUAIL SAYS.

Whistles the quail from the covert, Whistles with all his might, High and shrill, day after day, "Children, tell me, what does he say?"

_Ginx_--(the little one, bold and bright, Sure that he understands aright)-- "He says, 'Bob White! Bob White!'"

Calls the quail from the cornfield, Thick with stubble set; Misty rain-clouds floating by Hide the blue of the August sky.

"What does he call now, loud and plain?"

_Gold Locks_--"That's a sign of rain!

He calls 'More wet! more wet!'"

Pipes the quail from the fence-top, Perched there full in sight, Quaint and trim, with quick, bright eye, Almost too round and plump to fly, Whistling, calling, piping clear, "What do _I_ think he says? My dear, He says 'Do right! do right!'"

MRS. CLARA DOTY BATES.

CHICK-A-DEE-DEE.

The snowflakes are drifting round windows and door; The chilly winds whistle "Remember the poor;"

Remember the birds, too, out on yonder tree; I hear one just singing a Chick-a-dee-dee.

Throw out a few crumbs! you've enough and to spare; They need through the winter your kindness and care; And they will repay you with heartiest glee, By constantly singing a Chick-a-dee-dee.

Each morning you'll see them go hopping around, Though little they find on the cold frozen ground; Yet never disheartened! on each bush and tree, They merrily carol a Chick-a-dee-dee.

Oh! sweet little songster; so fearless and bold!

Your little pink feet--do they never feel cold?

Have you a warm shelter at night for your bed, Where under your wing you can tuck your brown head?

Though cold grows the season you seem not to care, But cheerily warble though frosty the air; Though short are the days, and the nights are so long, And most of your playmates are scattered and gone.

The snowflakes are drifting round window and door, And chilly winds whistle behind and before, Yet never discouraged, on each bush and tree, You'll hear the sweet carol of Chick-a-dee-dee.

MRS. C. F. BERRY.

THE LINNET.

What is the happiest morning song?

The Linnet's. He warbles, blithe and free, In the sunlit top of the old elm-tree, Joyous and fresh, and hopeful and strong.

The trees are not high enough, little bird; You mount and wheel, and eddy and soar, And with every turn yet more and more Your wonderful, ravishing music is heard.

A crimson speck in the bright blue sky, Do you search for the secret of heaven's deep glow?

Is not heaven _within_, when you carol so?

Then why, dear bird, must you soar so high?

He answers nothing, but soars and sings; He heeds no doubtful question like this.

He only bubbles over with bliss, And sings, and mounts on winning wings.

HARRIET E. PAINE: _Bird Songs of New England._

HEAR THE WOODLAND LINNET.

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland Linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.

And hark! how blithe the Throstle sings!

He, too, is no mean preacher: Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher.

Sweet is the love which Nature brings: Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.

Enough of Science and of Art: Close up these barren leaves: Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.

W. WORDSWORTH.

THE PARROT.

A TRUE STORY.