On the seventh day, at noon, I took his cage to the window and set him free. He flew the length of the house and settled on a rosebush at the end of the porch, where he sat for some time, peering about, with his little head comically hoisting this side and that. Presently, when I came to the window to see if he were still there, I found he had flown away; and though I thought I could distinguish his particular "cheep" several times afterwards, I saw him no more that day. Nor did I expect to see him again. I missed him a great deal and was surprised to find how fond of him I had grown. Imagine my surprise and delight when I went out next morning to feed the chickens to find little "Cheeper" there before me! He flew onto the fence when he saw me, but soon flew down again, and hopped about among the little chicks quite fearlessly. I was afraid the big chickens would step on him; and, sure enough, the Bantam rooster _did_ walk right over him, but he just squawked and hopped away without any apparent resentment. The next morning he was there again, when I went out. This time he followed a hen about, hopping along with her little chicks as though he thought himself one of them. He was such a fluffy little fellow, and he did look so tiny and cunning! Poor little motherless baby, trying to find a mother in a big hen! That was the last time I saw him. Only a despised little English sparrow! Yet, little "Cheeper," you had your mission in life. You made the heart of one bird-lover more tender by your helplessness, and your memory is dear to her. THE HERMIT THRUSH. NELLY HART WOODWORTH. Does the thrush drink wild honey? a nectar distilled From the flowers of the field, that his message is filled With such sweetness? O'er the twilight 'tis ringing-- June's divinest refrain, 'tis a soul that is singing, Oh, so trustfully sweet, rapture blended with pain, Rings the silver bell softly, I hear it again, And the wood is enchanted, uncertain it seems, As some moment of waking, the dreams, oh the dreams! Does he bathe evermore in the miracle springs, That his wings and his heart are in rhythm when he sings? Tears moisten the harpstrings, they quiver with pain, Then the triumph, the peace but the finest souls gain-- Earth's losses, its tears through the notes sweep along, The longings of earth find a voice in the song, Till outechoed by angels they find a release, To be silenced henceforth, merged in infinite peace. Will the spirit bird sing through the ages to come, Or the soul take its flight and, still singing, go home, And the world weep aghast when, the music withdrawn, The lark still a wing tells the rapture of dawn? [Illustration: GRAND CAÑON. _Used by courtesy of the A. T. & S. F. Ry._ CHICAGO: A. W. MUMFORD, PUBLISHER.] THE GRAND CAÑON OF THE COLORADO.