THE LITTLE FEATHERED BOYS AND GIRLS.

In fragrant fields where graze the herds And all along the old highway, The boys and girls among the birds Call each to each the livelong day.

Bob White, Bob White, pipes out the quail From old fence posts and mossy stones, In meadows where the ripened grain In golden stacks awaits the flail.

A little tuft of feathers grey That snaps its bill in eager glee When e’er a fly is caught on wing, Full forty times calls out Phoebe.

When fragrant dews fall from the sky— And sinks the sun behind the hill, From dark’ning woods rings out the cry, O Whip poor Will—O Whip poor Will. —Blandina D. Miller.