The wandering swallows listened, And eagerly said they, "O pretty bird! your notes are sweet: Come, fly with us away. We're following the sunshine, For it is bright and warm: We're leaving winter far behind With all its cold and storm. "The iron ground will yield no food, The berries will be few; Half-starved with hunger and with cold, Poor bird, what will you do?" "Nay, nay," said he, "when frost is hard, And all the leaves are dead, I know that kindly little hands Will give me crumbs of bread." C. [Illustration: THE ENGLISH ROBIN.] BIRDIE'S PIG STORY. I TOLD my story first, as mammas usually do; and it was all about a naughty little pig, who did not mind his mother when she bade him stay in the sty, but crawled through a hole in the wall. Of course this pig got into the garden, and was whipped by the farmer, and bitten by the dog, and had all sorts of unpleasant things happen to him, till he was glad to get back again to the sty. "Now I'll tell you a pig story," said Birdie, with a very wise look. "Once there was a big mother-pig, and she had _lots_ of children-pigs. One was spotted, and his name was Spotty; one's tail curled, and he was Curly; another was white, and he was Whitey; another was Browny; and another was Greeny." "Oh, dear! the idea of a _green_ pig!" said I. But Birdie's eyes were fixed on the floor. He was too busy thinking of his story to notice my remark. He went on,-- "One day the pigs found a hole in the wall, and they crawled through,--all of 'em, the mother-pig and all; and, when they got out, they ran off, grunting with--with joy. And when the farmer saw them, he went after them on a horse; but he couldn't catch them, for they all ran down under a bridge where there had been a brook; but the water was all dried up. "Then the farmer got a long pole, and poked under the bridge; but he couldn't reach them. He put some potatoes down there too, but the pigs weren't going to be coaxed out. And when they had staid as long as they wanted to, they came out themselves, and got home before the farmer did." That was the story, and I forgot to ask how they got home before the farmer did unless he drove them; but I think they must have gone home across the field, because it is plain that Birdie's pigs did just as they liked all through. What I did ask was, "Well, what was the good of it all?" for I thought nobody ought to tell a story without meaning some good by it.