There was always a buzz of bees and big flies about the tree table, who seemed to feast and get away safely. These first attracted our attention, but if we stayed five minutes we were sure to hear the dear, familiar sound announcing the most charming of all guests--humming birds--you know they are brave, brave as they are beautiful, but we found them shy about coming too near a Sapsucker; they hovered over his table as over a flower bed, often lighting on twigs to watch their chance at the freshest and fullest dishes. With the ruby throats, and on the best of terms with them, came gorgeous butterflies; the red admiral, the tiger swallow tail, and the antiopa were always there, and how bright they were seen against the snowy birch tree, in dazzling morning sunshine! The biggest and boldest of all the free feeders is on record as having come and gone fifteen times in fifteen minutes, a fat red squirrel, hair brushed and tail curled, not scolding or chattering here, he seemed to suspect himself out of place, for, taking a side seat on an outreaching branch, he would frisk off when bidden to go, but back again and again till he had his fill. Of course the last bird to leave the tree at night was the Sapsucker, but when he and all his family were gone, and the sun out of sight, we found a swarm of big yellow bees bustling about the high seats, and fancied that when at last their work was done the night moths and bats would have their turn, and perhaps some brisk little owl would take the squirrel's perch for a night lunch, getting away just before the sunrise concert opened another day of eating, drinking, and being merry at the white tree table. Elizabeth Reed Brownell. (The Yellow-breasted Sapsucker mentioned in the story is the eastern relative of the Red-breasted Sapsucker of our illustration.--Editor.) THE MOON-BABY. There's a beautiful golden cradle That rocks in the rose-red sky; I have seen it there in the evening air Where the bats and beetles fly, With little white clouds for curtains And pillows of fleecy wool, And a dear little bed for the moon-baby's head, So tiny and beautiful. There are tender young stars around it, That wait for their bath of dew In the purple tints that the sun's warm prints Have left on the mountain blue; There are good little gentle planets, That want to be nursed and kissed, And laid to sleep in the ocean deep, Under silvery folds of mist. But the moon-baby first must slumber, For he is their proud young king; So, hand in hand, round his bed they stand, And lullabies low they sing. And the beautiful golden cradle Is rocked by the winds that stray, With pinions soft, from the halls aloft, Where the moon-baby lives to-day. --Pall Mall Gazette. THE CECROPIA AND PROMETHEA MOTHS.