One of their chief delights is to wander over the lovely hills and meadows adjoining Sky Farm. Peeping into mossy dells, where wild flowers love to hide, hunting the early arbutus, the queen harebell, or the blue gentian, they learn the secrets of nature, and these they pour forth in song as simply and as naturally as the birds sing.] SOME VERSES, WRITTEN BY DORA, ON A HUMMING-BIRD'S NEST, WHICH SHE FOUND OVER HER STOCKING ON CHRISTMAS MORNING. When June was bright with roses fair, And leafy trees about her stood, When summer sunshine filled the air And flickered through the quiet wood, There, in its shade and silent rest, A tiny pair had built their nest. And when July, with scorching heat, Had dried the meadow grass to hay, And piled in stacks about the field Or fragrant in the barn it lay, Within the nest so softly made Two tiny, snowy eggs were laid. But when October's ripened fruit Had bent the very tree-tops down, And dainty flowers faded, drooped, And stately forests lost their crown, Their brood was hatched and reared and flown-- The mossy nest was left alone. And now the hills are cold and white, 'T is sever'd from its native bough; We gaze upon it with delight; Where are its cunning builders now? Far in the sunny south they roam, And leave to us their northern home. THE GRUMBLER. _His Youth_. His coat was too thick and his cap was too thin, He couldn't be quiet, he hated a din; He hated to write, and he hated to read, He was certainly very much injured indeed; He must study and work over books he detested, His parents were strict, and he never was rested; He knew he was wretched as wretched could be, There was no one so wretchedly wretched as he. _His Maturity_. His farm was too small and his taxes too big, He was selfish and lazy, and cross as a pig; His wife was too silly, his children too rude; And just because he was uncommonly good, He never had money enough or to spare, He had nothing at all fit to eat or to wear; He knew he was wretched as wretched could be, There was no one so wretchedly wretched as he. _His Old Age_. He finds he has sorrows more deep than his fears, He grumbles to think he has grumbled for years; He grumbles to think he has grumbled away His home and his fortune, his life's little day. But, alas! 't is too late,--it is no use to say That his eyes are too dim, and his hair is too gray. He knows he is wretched as wretched can be, There _is_ no one more wretchedly wretched than he. DORA. JUNE. For stately trees in rich array, For sunlight all the happy day, For blossoms radiant and rare, For skies when daylight closes, For joyous, clear, outpouring song From birds that all the green wood throng, For all things young, and bright, and fair, We praise thee, Month of Roses!