Charmed with the sweetness of his strain, My heart found cheer in winter’s bluster; The leafless wood was fair again, Its ice-gems sparkled with new lustre. The tiny, trembling, tinkling throat Poured forth despair’s sure antidote, No leafy June hears sweeter note— “Tsip-twis-ch-e-e-e cheerily-cheerily-dare”— The essence of unspoken prayer. —Lynn Tew Sprague, in _Bird-Lore_. THE CHICKADEE When piped a tiny voice hard by, Gay and polite, a cheerful cry, Chic-chickadee-dee! saucy note Out of sound heart and merry throat, As if it said, “Good day, good sir! Fine afternoon, old passenger! Happy to meet you in these places Where January brings few faces.” —R. W. Emerson. * * * * * These are a few of the many bits of verse and poems that Gray Lady read or recited to the children in these days, some of which they learned by heart. Once learned, she knew they would never be forgotten, but that years afterward, when they saw the birds that the lines described, the words and the days in the schoolhouse and playroom, and the faces of their companions, would all come back to them. BIRD SONGS OF MEMORY Oh, surpassing all expression by the rhythmic use of words, Are the memories that gather of the singing of the birds: When as a child I listened to the Whip-poor-will at dark, And with the dawn awakened to the music of the Lark. Then what a chorus wonderful when morning had begun,— The very leaves, it seemed to me, were singing to the sun, And calling on the world asleep to waken and behold The king in glory coming forth along his path of gold. The crimson-fronted Linnet sang above the river’s edge, The Finches in the evergreens, the Thrasher in the hedge; Each one as if a dozen songs were chorused in his own, And all the world were listening to him and him alone. In gladness sang the Bobolink upon ascending wing, With cheery voice the bird of blue, the pioneer of spring, The Oriole upon the elm, with martial note and clear, While Martins twittered gayly by the cottage window near. Among the orchard trees were heard the Robin and the Wren, And the army of the Blackbirds along the marshy fen; The songster in the meadow and the Quail upon the wheat, And the warbler’s minor music made the symphony complete. Beyond the tow’ring chimney’d walls that daily meet my eyes, I hold a vision beautiful beneath the summer skies; Within the city’s grim confines, above the roaring street, The Happy Birds of Memory are singing clear and sweet. —Garrett Newkirk. XXI JACOB HUGHES’ OPINION OF CATS