Who knows the joy a flower knows When it blows sweetly? Who knows the joy a bird knows When it goes fleetly? Bird's wing and flower stem-- Break them, who would? Bird's wing and flower stem-- Make them, who could? --_Harper's Weekly._ [Illustration: DICKCISSEL.] THE DICKCISSEL. ---- You little folks, I'm afraid, who live or visit in the country every summer, will not recognize me when I am introduced to you by the above name. You called me the Little Field Lark, or Little Meadow Lark, while all the time, perched somewhere on a fence-stake, or tall weed-stump, I was telling you as plain as I could what my name really is. "_See, see_," I said, "_Dick, Dick--Cissel, Cissel._" To tell you the truth I don't belong to the Lark family at all. Simply because I wear a yellow vest and a black bow at my throat as they do doesn't make me a Lark. You can't judge birds, anymore than people, by their clothes. No, I belong to the Finch, or Bunting family, and they who call me the _Black-throated Bunting_ are not far from right. I am one of the birds that go south in winter. About the first of April I get back from the tropics and really I find some relief in seeing the hedges bare, and the trees just putting on their summer dress. In truth I don't care much for buds and blossoms, as I only frequent the trees that border the meadows and cornfields. Clover fields have a great attraction for me, as well as the unbroken prairie. I sing most of the time because I am so happy. To be sure it is about the same tune, "_See, see,--Dick, Dick--Cissel, Cissel_," but as it is about myself I sing I never grow tired of it. Some people do, however, and wish I would stop some time during the day. Even in the hottest noonday you will see me perched on a fence-stake or a tall weed-stalk singing my little song, while my mate is attending to her nest tucked away somewhere in a clump of weeds, or bush, very near the ground. There, I am sorry I told you that. You may be a bad boy, or a young collector, and will search this summer for my nest, and carry it and all the pretty eggs away. Think how sorrowful my mate would be, and I, no longer happy, would cease to sing, "_See, See,--Dick, Dick, Cissel, Cissel_." ---- THE DUSKY GROUSE. ----