It has often been remarked that in the bird world the rule is for the males to have the brilliant plumage, with all the beautiful colors and for the females to be the dowdy ones--a rule which would entail a revolution in fashions, startling and ludicrous, if it were to be introduced for variety among our own kind. Again, gaily-dressed birds have the least pleasing song--the screaming jay bearing an unfavorable comparison with the thrush--and the modestly-attired nightingale having furnished, in all ages, a brilliant example of virtue unadorned. The nightingale, however, leaving before the climate has become objectionable, we must praise its musical accomplishments rather as being those of a distinguished guest, or foreign _prima donna_, than of an indigenous artist. But we have another bird who _is_ always here, facing winter's blasts in addition to summer's bloom, who in voice stands unrivaled; no competitor approaching any where near him for fluency, richness, and liquid melody of song--to wit, the blackbird. This negro melodist seldom spares his lungs at all until winter is far advanced into its New Year months; and even amid the bitter mornings of January, his rich, unfaltering notes can sometimes be heard. His coat is a glossy black, always cleanly brushed, and in the case of one family, sometimes called the "Red-wing," with a gorgeous scarlet lapel on either side. TIME ENOUGH. Two little rabbits out in the sun; One gathered food, the other had none. "Time enough yet," his constant refrain; "Summer is still just on the wane." Listen, my child, while I tell you his fate: He roused him at last, but he roused him too late. Down fell the snow from a pitiless cloud, And gave little rabbit a spotless white shroud. Two little boys in a school-room were placed; One always perfect, the other disgraced. "Time enough yet for my learning," he said; "I will climb by-and-by, from the foot to the head." Listen, my darling--their locks are turned gray; One, as a governor, sitteth to-day. The other, a pauper, looks out at the door Of the alms-house, and idles his days as of yore. Two kinds of people we meet every day; One is at work, the other at play, Living uncared for, dying unknown.-- The busiest hive hath ever a drone. Tell me, my child, if the rabbits have taught, The lesson I longed to impart in your thought. Answer me this, and my story is done, Which of the two will you be, little one? THE MOUSE WEDDING.