Would we miss them, you and I, Would we care if soon should die Every single singing bird You and I have ever heard? Would we miss them from the grass, Through the tangled, deep morass; From the bushes and the trees— Robin, wren and chickadees— Birds of blue and crimson wing; Would we miss the notes they sing; Would we miss the call and cry; Chattering talk as we go by; Nests amid the reeds and grass, Nests swung high above the pass? Do we care that birds must die, Slaughtered daily as they fly? Men will kill while people choose Wings of birds to buy and use; Soon the woods must quiet be; Scarce a bird for minstrelsy. —George Klingle. A PANSY BED. There is ever so much fun in a pansy bed. If you have never had one, ask your papa or mamma to let you have one this summer. A few dozen plants will give you much pleasure. There are so many little faces to know among them, and so many little family groups. Some grin at you like monkeys, others scowl, some seem to wink, some smile shyly, while others are curious and open-eyed. There is a white family delicately blue-veined—Colonial Dames, I call them. There are negroes of the darkest hue, Indians, and those that the sun seems to have bronzed. There are groups of Chinamen with their little “yellow kids.” Some are tattooed, and some have striped skin. Many wear ruffled bonnets, and some have beards. The little clusters are so erect and alert on a morning after a heavy dew that they seem like families off for an outing or school children waiting for a snap shot. There are lovely grandmothers wearing purple caps with white frills, and with faces though crinkled and wrinkled yet full of smiles and wisdom. There are sweethearts too, their little heads close together, and they whisper, whisper when the wind goes by. What do you think? One day from out of my bowl of pansies which I had placed on the lunch table skipped two frisky “yellow kids.” I discovered them hand in hand skipping away. Their little figures were reflected in the polished surface of the table, and they seemed partners out of a Virginia reel. As I put them back in the bowl among their elders, I felt that I had wantonly interrupted a runaway. Watch how the pansies love the rain! As they seem praying for it with bent heads in dry weather, so they seem a-quiver with thanksgiving after a shower. There are many things you can do with your pansies. First, though, you must love them. You must teach pussy and the dog not to tramp over them. Every day you must take off all the faded flowers. You must water them and weed them. You will enjoy gathering a bouquet daily for the house, and if anybody is ill, papa or mamma or some one else you love, by all means carry them a bunch of your pansies.