It seems almost incredible that scarcely more than half a century has witnessed the passing of a once abundant species of our native bird. Like the bison, the paroquet has been swept away by the rushing tide of progress, leaving only fading memories where once they were characteristic features of the landscape. We may congratulate ourselves that there are few of our birds and mammals that find it so impossible to survive the advance of civilization. WHAT THE WOOD FIRE SAID TO A LITTLE BOY. What said the wood in the fire To the little boy that night, The little boy of the golden hair, As he rocked himself in his little arm-chair, When the blaze was burning bright? The wood said: "See What they've done to me! I stood in the forest, a beautiful tree! And waved my branches from east to west; And many a sweet bird built its nest In my leaves of green, That loved to lean In springtime over the daisy's breast. "From the blossomy dells, Where the violet dwells, The cattle came with their clanging bells, And rested under my shadows sweet; And the winds that went over the clover and wheat, Told me all that they knew Of the flowers that grew In the beautiful meadows that dreamed at my feet! "And the wild wind's caresses Oft rumpled my tresses; But, sometimes, as soft as a mother's lip presses On the brow of the child of her bosom, it laid Its lips on my leaves, and I was not afraid, And I listened and heard The small heart of each bird, As it beat in the nests that their mothers had made. "And in springtime sweet faces, Of myriad graces, Came beaming and gleaming from flowery places. And under my grateful and joy-giving shade, With cheeks like primroses, the little ones played; And the sunshine in showers, Through all the bright hours, Bound their flowery ringlets with silvery braid. "And the lightning Came brightening, From storm skies, and frightening The wandering birds that were tossed by the breeze, And tilted like ships on black, billowy seas; But they flew to my breast, And I rocked them to rest, While the trembling vines clustered and clung to my knees. "But how soon," said the wood, "Fades the memory of good! For the forester came, with his axe gleaming bright, And I fell like a giant all shorn of his might. Yet still there must be Some sweet mission for me, For have I not warmed you and cheered you to-night?" So said the wood in the fire To the little boy that night, The little boy of the golden hair, As he rocked himself in his little arm-chair, When the blaze was burning bright. --_Atlanta Constitution._ THE MISSISSIPPI. W. E. WATT.