We have some idea of how these people regarded the movements of the birds from one of the ancient Greek writers, who, in a play entitled "The Birds," makes them give the following account of themselves: "We point out to man the work of each season. When the crow takes his flight across the Mediterranean it is seed-time--time for the pilot to season his timber. The kite tells you when you ought to shear your sheep; the swallow shows you when you ought to sell your watch-coats, and buy light dresses for the summer. We birds are the hinge of everything you do. We regulate your merchandise, your eating and drinking, and your marriages." This Greek play-writer probably voiced the sentiments of the majority of the people, who had implicit faith in what they called "the prophecies of the birds;" and it is not surprising that they endowed the eagle--the king of the feathered tribes--with almost supernatural wisdom. Phebe Westcott Humphrey. THE SNOWDROP'S PHILOSOPHY. "I should think you'd lose heart in this frosty air," Said a sparrow one day to a snowdrop fair. "You're almost hidden down there in the snow, And I see you shiver whene'er the winds blow. If I were you I wouldn't bloom If I couldn't grow with the roses in June. What right have they any more than you, To live in the summer when skies are blue And bright with sunshine the whole long day? They have it easy enough, I must say; But you're so meekly quiet and white, You're afraid to speak up when you have the right." "But, my dear," said the snowdrop, "can't you see That summer can do very well without me? My place is to blossom right here in the snow, No matter where the roses grow. It's lovely to be a summer flower, But I am content to do all in my power To sweeten the gloom of this wintry day, And be brave if the sky is so cold and gray. I cannot be helpful by being sad; I have my work and that makes me glad To bloom my fairest and grow my best, And let kind nature do all the rest." Wildea Wood. THE GLADNESS OF NATURE. Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, When our mother Nature laughs around, When even the deep blue heavens look glad, And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground? There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren, And the gossip of swallows through all the sky; The ground-squirrel gaily chirps by his den, And the wilding-bee hums merrily by. The clouds are at play in the azure space, And their shadows at play on the bright green vale, And here they stretch to frolic chase, And there they roll on the easy gale.