It is delightful to watch them as drowsiness films their round, bright, black eyes, and the dear old mother croons them under her ample wings, and they nestle in perfect harmony. How they manage to bestow themselves with such limited accommodations, or how they manage to breathe in a room so close, it is difficult to imagine. They certainly deal a staggering blow to our preconceived notions of the necessity of oxygen and ventilation, but they make it easy to see whence the Germans derived their fashion of sleeping under feather beds. But breathe and bestow themselves they do. The deep mother breast and the broad mother wings take them all in. They penetrate her feathers, and open for themselves unseen little doors into the mysterious, brooding, beckoning darkness. But it is long before they can arrange themselves satisfactorily. They chirp, and stir, and snuggle, trying to find the softest and warmest nook. Now, an uneasy head is thrust out, and now a whole tiny body; but it soon re-enters in another quarter, and at length the stir and chirp grows still. You see only a collection of little legs, as if the hen were a banyan tree, and presently even they disappear. She settles down comfortably and all are wrapped in a slumberous silence. And as I sit by the hour, watching their winning ways, and see all the steps of this sleepy subsidence, I can but remember that outburst of love and sorrow from the lips of Him who, though He came to earth from a dwelling place of ineffable glory, called nothing unclean because it was common, found no homely detail too homely or too trivial to illustrate the Father's love; but from the birds of the air, the fish of the sea, the lilies of the field, the stones in the street, the foxes in their holes, the patch on the coat, the oxen in the furrow, the sheep in the pit, the camel under his burden, drew lessons of divine pity and patience, of heavenly duty and delight." BOB WHITE. Who's whistling so cheerfully down in the clover, When the meadows are wet with the sweet morning dew? He's piping and calling, this ardent young lover, And telling his tale the whole morning through, What is it he says in the early sunlight? "Bob White! Bob White! Bob--Bob White!" At noon, when the day god in wrath has descended, With his swift golden arrows, on grain-field and hill; And the birds of the morning their love songs have ended, Then deep in the wood, and down by the rill I hear a shrill whistle, so cheerful and bright: "Wheat ripe? Bob White! Not--not quite!"