Mr. Ridgway quotes from Dr. Brewer: “The notes are clear, resonant and high, and constitute a prolonged series, varying from the lowest tones to the highest, and terminating with the latter. It may be heard at quite a distance, and in some respects bears more resemblance to the song of the English skylark than to that of the canary, to which Mr. Audubon compares it.” Mr. Ridgway continues: “We have never heard the skylark sing, but there is certainly no resemblance between the notes of the Ruby-crowned Kinglet and those of the canary, the latter being as inferior in tenderness and softness as they excel in loudness.” Mr. Audubon had stated: “When I tell you that its song is fully as sonorous as that of the canary-bird, and much richer, I do not come up to the truth, for it is not only as powerful and clear, but much more varied and pleasing to the ear.” While the frequent sacrifice of the adult regulus and regina through their reckless absorption in their own affairs and obliviousness to the presence of enemies, lends color to the statement that “The spirits of the martyrs will be lodged in the crops of green birds,” yet by virtue of a talent other than vocal, they compel few of the human family to echo the remorseful lament of John Halifax, Gentleman, “I took the wren’s nest, Bird, forgive me!” For but few of the most ardent seekers have succeeded in locating the habitation of the fairy kinglet, and the unsuccessful majority perforce exclaim with Wordsworth, “Oh, blessed bird! The earth we pace Again appears to be An unsubstantial, fairy place, That is fit home for thee!” Juliette A. Owen. THE CORN SONG. Heap high the farmer’s wintry hoard! Heap high the golden corn! No richer gift has autumn poured From out her lavish horn! Let other lands, exulting, glean The apple from the pine, The orange from its glossy green, The cluster from the vine; We better love the hardy gift Our ragged vales bestow, To cheer us when the storm shall drift Our harvest-fields with snow. Through vales of grass and meads of flowers, Our ploughs their furrows made, While on the hills the sun and showers Of changeful April played. We dropped the seed o’er hill and plain, Beneath the sun of May, And frightened from our sprouting grain The robber crows away. All through the long, bright days of June, Its leaves grew green and fair, And waved in hot midsummer’s noon Its soft and yellow hair. And now, with Autumn’s moonlit eves, Its harvest time has come, We pluck away the frosted leaves, And bear the treasure home. Then, richer than the fabled gift Apollo showered of old, Fair hands the broken grain shall sift, And knead its meal of gold.