Part 2 — BIRD NOTES.

Six poplar trees, in golden green, Stand up the sweet May snow between— The snow of plum and pear tree bloom— And I, looking down from my little room, Call to the bird on the bough: ‘What cheer?’ And he pipes for answer: ‘The spring is here.’ A month goes by with its sun and rain, And a rosebud taps at my window pane; I see in the garden down below The tall white lilies a stately row; The birds are pecking the cherries red: ‘Summer is sweet,’ the starlings said. Again I look from my casement down; The leaves are changing to red and brown; And overhead, through a sky of gray, The swallows are flying far away. ‘Whither away, sweet birds?’ I cry. ‘Autumn is come,’ they make reply. Keenly, coldly, the north winds blow; Silently falls the pure white snow; Of birds and blossoms am I bereft— Brave bright robin alone is left, And he taps and chirps at my window pane: ‘Take heart; the spring will return again.’ Florence Tylee.