Mr. John Burroughs, in his little book, "Wake Robin," writes in an admirable manner of the song and habits of this little bird. He says: "Have you heard the song of the Field-Sparrow? If you have lived in a pastoral country, with broad upland pastures, you could hardly have missed him. Wilson, I believe, calls him the Grass-Finch, and was evidently unacquainted with his powers of song. The two white lateral quills of his tail, and his habit of running and skulking a few yards in advance of you as you walk through the fields, are sufficient to identify him. Not in meadows or orchards, but in high, breezy pasture grounds, will you look for him. His song is most noticeable after sundown, when other birds are silent, for which reason he has been aptly called the Vesper Sparrow. The farmer following his team from the field at dusk catches his sweetest strain. His song is not so brisk and varied as that of the Song-Sparrow, being softer and wilder, sweeter and more plaintive. Add the best parts of the lay of the latter to the sweet vibrating chant of the Wood Sparrow (Spizella pusilla), and you have the evening hymn of the Vesper-bird--the poet of the plain unadorned pastures. Go to those broad, smooth, uplying fields, where the cattle and sheep are grazing, and sit down on one of the warm, clean stones, and listen to this song. On every side, near and remote, from out the short grass which the herds are cropping, the strain rises. Two or three long, silver notes of rest and peace, ending in some subdued trills or quavers, constitute each separate song. Often you will catch only one or two of the bars, the breeze having blown the minor part away. Such unambitious, unconscious melody! It is one of the most characteristic sounds in Nature. The grass, the stones, the stubble, the furrow, the quiet herds, and the warm twilight among the hills, are all subtly expressed in this song; this is what they are at least capable of." [Illustration: VESPER SPARROW. (Poocaetes gramineus.) 1/2 Life-size. FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES. COPYRIGHT 1900, BY A. W. MUMFORD, CHICAGO.] THE WORSHIP OF NATURE. The ocean looketh up to heaven As 'twere a living thing; The homage of its waves is given In ceaseless worshiping. They kneel upon the sloping sand, As bends the human knee, A beautiful and tireless band, The priesthood of the sea! They pour the glittering treasures out Which in the deep have birth, And chant their awful hymns about The watching hills of earth. The green earth sends its incense up From every mountain-shrine, From every flower and dewy cup That greeteth the sunshine. The mists are lifted from the rills, Like the white wing of prayer: They lean above the ancient hills As doing homage there.