BABY'S PINK THUMBS.

The snow had quite covered the ground, The wind whistled fiercely and chill, When a poor little storm-beaten bird Flew down on the broad window-sill. Within, there was comfort and wealth; Gay pictures half covered the wall; The children were happy at play; And the fire shone bright over all. Without, there was famine and frost; Not a morsel of fruit or of grain; And the bird gave a piteous chirp, And tapped with his beak at the pane. Then baby climbed up on a chair, Forgetting his trumpets and drums: He doubled his two little fists, And pointed with both his pink thumbs. "See, see!" and he laughed with delight, "Pretty bird, pretty bird: here he comes!" When the bird, with a bob of his head, Made a peck at the baby's pink thumbs. Then the children called out with great glee, "He thinks they are cherries, or plums, Or pieces of apple; and so He tries to eat baby's pink thumbs." "Poor birdie!" said mamma: "we know That God for his creatures will care; But he gives to his thoughtfuller ones The pleasure of doing their share. "We softly will open the sash, And scatter a handful of crumbs; And, when birdie wants breakfast again, He needn't peck baby's pink thumbs. "He may come day by day, if he will, To a feast on the broad window-ledge, And fly, when he's eaten his fill, To his home in the evergreen hedge."