This bird is also known as the Towee-finch, the Tshe-wink and Pee-wink, names derived from its favorite notes. It is found in great numbers in woods and overgrown meadows, and sometimes along the banks of streams, and is both familiar and playful. A pair will sometimes roam for a great distance along a water-course, scratching for insects, worms or seeds, and encouraging each other by their simple cry of tow-wee, tow-wee. They sometimes forage along gardens or pea-patches. On such occasions, they behold the approach of man with but little concern, and fly off only when in danger of being taken. The species is found in Canada, and probably farther north among the Rocky Mountains, and southward throughout the United States. They are, however, more abundant east of the Alleghanies than to the west. Sometimes, but not often, they pass the winter in Pennsylvania, but are constantly in the milder States during that season. Their manner of building is rather peculiar; the nest being fixed on the ground, below the surface, and covered with leaves, or the shelter of an adjoining bush. It is rarely raised above the ground. The materials are fine bark, leaves, moss, dried grass and down. Sometimes part of the adjoining herbage is employed. The eggs are four or five in number, white, with a flesh color tint, and spotted with brown. In New England they raise but one brood, but in warm States two, the first in June, and the second during the following month. During this period they artfully draw the intruder from their charge, by pretending lameness, and feebly retreating as he pursues. The Ground-Robin is about eight inches long, and eleven across the wings. The throat, neck, and whole upper part of the body is black, with feathers of the same color, interspersed with white, in the wings and tail. The belly is white, with bay thighs. In the female and young the black of the male is changed for olive brown, and there is less pure white in the tail and wings. * * * * * THE FORTIETH SONNET OF PETRARCA. If honest love e’er merited reward, If worship win the meed of yore it won, I should be blest, since purer than the sun The love my sighs and poesy record; Yet ’tis not so: unwillingly are heard My vows, and all regardlessly are flung Her eyes o’er burning lines wherein is sung Her matchless beauty, and my grief is bared. But yet I hope that some day she may deign To hearken to the tribute I have brought And smile at least return for all my tears. Still it may be I’ll languish here in vain Until that dread catastrophe is wrought, When time shall harvest all its sheaf of years. * * * * * [Illustration: CROSS PURPOSES.] * * * * * CROSS PURPOSES. BY KATE.