Then from Cuba and the isles Where a tropic sun beguiles, And from lands beyond the Caribbean sea, Every dainty warbler flocks With a tiny music-box And a trunk of pretty feathers duty-free. And in colors manifold, Orange, scarlet, blue, and gold, Green and yellow, black, and brown and grays galore, They will thread the forest aisles With the very latest styles, And a tune apiece to open up the score. But they do not care to part With their decorative art, Which must always have the background of a tree; And will surely bring a curse To a grasping mind or purse, Since God loves the birds as well as you and me. BIRDS THAT DO NOT SING. Singing is applied to birds in the same sense that it is to human beings--the utterance of musical notes. Every person makes vocal sounds of some kind, but many persons never attempt to sing. So it is with birds. The eagle screams, the owl hoots, the wild goose honks, the crow caws, but none of these discordant sounds can be called singing. With the poet, the singing of birds means merry, light-hearted joyousness, and most of us are poetic enough to view it in the same way. Birds sing most in the spring and the early summer, those happiest seasons of the year, while employed in nest-building and in rearing their young. Many of our musical singers are silent all the rest of the year; at least they utter only low chirpings. Outside of what are properly classed as song birds there are many species that never pretend to sing; in fact, these far outnumber the musicians. They include the water birds of every kind, both swimmers and waders; all the birds of prey, eagles, hawks, owls, and vultures; and all the gallinaceous tribes, comprising pheasants, partridges, turkeys, and chickens. The gobble of the turkey cock, the defiant crow of the "bob-white," are none of them true singing; yet it is quite probable that all of these sounds are uttered with precisely similar motives to those that inspire the sweet warbling of the song-sparrow, the clear whistle of the robin, or the thrilling music of the wood-thrush.--_Philadelphia Times._ [Illustration: CHICAGO COLORTYPE CO., CHIC. & NEW YORK. HYACINTH. Life-size COPYRIGHT 1899, NATURE STUDY PUB. CO., CHICAGO.] THE HYACINTH. I sometimes think that never blows so red The rose as where some buried Cæsar bled; That every hyacinth the garden wears Dropt in her lap from some once lovely head. --_Omar Khayyam._