he water,
holding it up distended, as if to endorse the modern theory that the
parent loon teaches her young to swim. They cling to each other and
cling to her, as if afraid of being lost in the great expanse of water
to which they have been so recently introduced.

A short distance away the father swims about in lordly indifference,
diving occasionally and regaling himself on the unsuspecting fish. A
boat comes out from the shore, rowed by an industrious guide, with an
angler, picturesquely protected by mosquito net, sitting in the stern.
The mother loon pushes and urges her indolent pair in the direction of
safety. How slow they must seem as she hurries and encourages them! The
trio moves at a snail's pace compared with her ordinary speed, but the
young ones show no inclination to dive out of harm's way. Their
clinging, crowding tendency serves but to incommode and obstruct her.
And where is the male protector? Alas for the romance of chivalry! When
the boat comes near, he deliberately dives, and, after the usual
protracted wait, reappears in another part of the lake, away from the
danger that alarms and threatens the defenceless trio. But the mother
remains and urges the encumbering young things to speed. They do make
some headway, though slowly, toward the marshy bay from which they
recently emerged with so much loud, wild laughter. The indifference of
the fisherman and the guide does not reassure them, and they never cease
their entangled struggle till lost to sight in the winding lagoon.

S. T. Wood

TO THE CUCKOO

O blithe New-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice.
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?

While I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear;
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off, and near.

Though babbling only to the Vale,
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery;

The same whom in my school-boy days
I listened to; that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen.

And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
A