y amid petals all summer for honey!
Now rest on a twig, tiny flowerland sprite,
Your dear little lady sits near in delight;
In a wee felted basket she lovingly huddles--
Two dots of white eggs to her warm breast she cuddles!
Whiz-z! whiff! off to your flowers!
Buzz mid the perfume of jasmine bowers!
Chatter and chirrup, my king of the fays,
And laugh at the song that I sing in your praise!

CHARLES KEELER,
in _Elfin Songs of Sunland._

SEPTEMBER 25.

THE HUMMING BIRD.

A sudden whirr of eager sound--
And now a something throbs around
The flowers that watch the fountain. Look!
It touched the rose, the green leaves shook,
I think, and yet so lightly tost
That not a spark of dew was lost.
Tell me, O rose, what thing it is
That now appears, now vanishes?
Surely it took its fire-green hue
From day-breaks that it glittered through;
Quick, for this sparkle of the dawn
Glints through the garden and is gone.

EDWIN MARKHAM,
in _Lincoln and Other Poems._

SEPTEMBER 26.

She led the way to the climbing rose at the front of the house, and
carefully lifting a branch, motioned to the boys to look under it.
There, hidden in the leafy covert, no higher than the young girl's
chin, was the daintiest nest ever seen, made of soft cotton from the
pussy willows by the brook, interwoven with the finest grasses and
green mosses, and embroidered with one shining golden thread. And there
was wee mother humming-bird, watching them a moment with bright,
inquiring eyes, then darting off and poising in the air just above
their heads, uncovering two tiny eggs about the size of buckshot, lying
in a downy hollow like a thimble.

FLORA HAINES LOUGHEAD,
in _The Abandoned Claim._

SEPTEMBER 27.

THE RUSSET-BACKED THRUSH.

He dwells where pine and hemlock grow,
A merry minstrel seldom seen;
The voice of Joy is his I know--
Shy poet of the Evergreen!

In dawn's first holy hush I hear
His one ecstatic, thrilling strain,
So sweet and strong, so crystal clear
'Twould tingle e'en the soul of Pain.

At close of day when Twilight dreams
He shakes the air beneath his tree
With such exquisite song it seems
That Passion breathes through Melody.

HERBERT BASHFORD,
in _At the Shrine of Song._

SEPTEMBER 28.

In Marin County birds hold a unique place, for, as the county is
sparsely populated, possessing many wild, secluded valleys, an