she seemed to say.

"Why don't you get up? I have five little birds! They came out of the eggs this morning. They are so hungry I can't get enough for them to eat! Why don't you get up, I say?"

It was hard work for this faithful little mother to feed so many mouths. She flew here and there, over fields and woods and roads, getting worms and flies. and seeds, such as she knew were good for her young nestlings.

It was wonderful how much food those five small creatures could eat. What she brought each day would have filled that nest up to the top. Yet they ate all the food and asked for more. It was indeed hard work, but this patient little mother bird was glad to do it. She did not allow her little ones to want, not even the smallest and weakest of them. For there was one poor little fellow who could not ask so loudly as the others, yet she always fed him first.

I have now come to the sad part of the story, and it

is so sad that I am sorry to tell it to you.

There was a boy lived near my home who was a good marksman with a stone, or a bow and arrow, or an airgun, or a sling shot. He went about all day aiming at every animal that he saw. Even at his meals he would think about good shots at the clock or at the cat or at anything else that he chanced to see.

One day I had to go away from home, and I was gone three days. I left the mother bird and her little ones safe and happy in the big green tree. But the very day I left home, this little mother bird picked up a worm, and stopped a minute on a wall before flying to her nest. The boy marksman saw her and of course aimed at her. He hit her in the side.

She was very much hurt, yet she fluttered and limped and dragged herself, in great pain, to the foot of the tree where her nest was. But she could not fly up

to the nest, for her wing was broken.

She chirped a little, and the young ones heard her; and, as they were hungry, they chirped back loudly. She could not go up to them, however, or even tell them why she did not go.

She tried once more to rise. Only one of her wings would move, and that just turned her over on one side. think the boy would have laughed if he had seen her then?

Do you

All the rest of that day the little mother lay there. When she chirped, her children answered, and when they chirped she answered. But her voice grew fainter and weaker. Late in the day the young ones could

not hear it any more, but she could still hear them.

Sometime in the night the mother bird died. During all the next day the little birds slept when hunger allowed them and waked, and then called out until they were so tired that they fell asleep again.

The next night was very cold, and they missed their mother's warm breast. Before dawn they all died, one after the other. Five slender little necks all limp and lifeless, five pair of bright little eyes shut forever!

The boy marksman had killed six birds at one shot, the mother and five young ones. If you know him, please read this little story to him. Do you think he will like to hear it?

I killed a robin. The little thing,
With scarlet breast and glossy wing,
That came in the apple tree to sing.
A little flutter-a little cry-
Then on the ground I saw her lie;
I didn't think she was going to die.

And I'm thinking every summer day,

That I can never, never repay

The little life that I took away.

cupboard

ONE, TWO, THREE!

SYDNEY DAYRE.

clothespress

It was an old, old, old, old lady,

And a boy that was half past three;
And the way that they played together
Was beautiful to see.

She couldn't go running and jumping,
And the boy, no more could he;
For he was a thin little fellow,

With a thin little twisted knee.

They sat in the yellow sunlight,
Out under the maple tree;

And the game that they played I'll tell you,
Just as it was told to me.

It was hide-and-go-seek they were playing, Though you'd never have known it to be— With an old, old, old, old lady,

And a boy with a twisted knee.

The boy would bend his face down
On his one little sound right knee,
And he'd guess where she was hiding,
In guesses One, Two, Three!

"You are in the china closet!"

He would cry and laugh with glee— It wasn't the china closet;

But he still had Two and Three.

"You are up in Papa's big bedroom,
In the chest with the queer old key!"
And she said: "You are warm and warmer;
But you're not quite right," said she.

"It can't be the little cupboard

Where Mamma's things used to be So it must be the clothespress, Gran'ma!" And he found her with his Three.

Then she covered her face with her fingers, That were wrinkled and white and wee, And she guessed where the boy was hiding, With a One and a Two and a Three,