BIRD THOUGHTS.

I LIVED first in a little house,
And lived there very well ;

I thought the world was small and round,
And made of pale blue shell.

I lived next in a little nest,

Nor needed any other;

I thought the world was made of straw,
And brooded by my mother.

One day I fluttered from the nest
To see what I could find.

I said: "The world is made of leaves,
I have been very blind."

At length I flew beyond the tree,
Quite fit for grown-up labors.

-I don't know how the world is made,
And neither do my neighbors!

ANONYMOUS.

THE DEAD DOLL.

"You needn't be trying to comfort me-I tell you my dolly is dead!

There's no use in saying she isn't, with a crack like that in her head.

It's just like you said it wouldn't hurt much to have my tooth out, that day;

And then when the man 'most pulled my head off, hadn't a word to say.

you

And I guess you must think I'm a baby, when you say you can mend it with glue;

As if I didn't know better than that! Why, just suppose it was you!

You might make her look all mended-but what do I care for looks?

Why, glue's for chairs and tables, and toys, and the backs of books!

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My dolly! my own little daughter! Oh, but it's the awfullest crack!

It just makes me sick to think of the sound when her poor head went whack

Child-Song.

203

Against that horrible brass thing that holds up the

little shelf.

Now, Nursey, what makes you remind me? I know that I did it myself!

"I think you must be crazy-you'll get her another head.

What good would forty heads do her? I tell you my dolly is dead.

And to think I hadn't quite finished her elegant new spring hat!

And I took a sweet ribbon of hers last night to tie on that horrid cat!

"When my mamma gave me that ribbon-I was playing out in the yard

She said to me, most expressly, 'Here's a ribbon for Hildegarde.'

And I went and put it on Tabby, and Hildegarde saw me do it;

But I said to myself, 'Oh, never mind, I don't believe she knew it!'

"But I know that she knew it now, and I just believe I do,

That her poor little heart was broken, and so her head broke too.

Oh, my baby! my little baby! I wish my head had been hit!

For I've hit it over and over, and it hasn't cracked a bit.

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Child-Song.

"But since the darling is dead, she'll want to be buried, of course :

We will take my little wagon, Nurse, and you shall be the horse;

And I'll walk behind and cry, and we'll put her in this, you see

This dear little box-and we'll bury her there out under the maple-tree.

"And papa will make me a tombstone, like the one he made for my bird;

And he'll put what I tell him on it—yes, every single word!

I shall say: 'Here lies Hildegarde, a beautiful doll, who is dead;

She died of a broken heart, and a dreadful crack

in her head.'"

MARGARET VANDEGRIFT.

Originally published in "The Youth's Companion.'

COBWEBS ON THE GRASS.

WHEN twilight was just beginning
Last night, the fairies sat spinning
With a firefly for a light :

Then they wove the threads together,
Their pattern a dove's white feather;
And here, at the end of night,
Lie their webs so dainty and white.

CURTIS MAY.