derstood
that the stork is the favorite bird of Holland; the bird of good fortune,
like the swallow; welcome to all, because it makes war upon toads and
frogs; that the peasants plant poles with circular floor of wood on top to
attract them to make their nests, and that in some towns they may be seen
walking in the streets. At Delft they were in great numbers. When the fire
broke out, which was on the 3d May, the young storks were fledged, but
could not yet fly. Seeing the fire approach, the parent storks attempted to
carry their young out of danger; but they were too heavy; and, after having
tried all sorts of desperate efforts, the poor birds were forced to give it
up.

They might have saved themselves and have abandoned the little ones to
their fate, as human creatures often do under similar circumstances. But
they stayed upon their nests, gathered their little ones about them,
covered them with their wings, as if to retard, as long as possible, the
fatal moment, and so awaited death, in that loving and noble attitude.

And who shall say if, in the horrible dismay and flight from the flames,
that example of self-sacrifice, that voluntary maternal martyrdom, may not
have given strength and courage to some weak soul who was about to abandon
those who had need of him.

DE AMICIS' _Holland_.

* * * * *

THE PHEASANT.

See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs
And mounts exulting on triumphant wings.
Short is his joy; he feels the fiery wound,
Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground.
Ah! what avail his glossy, varying dyes,
His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes,
The vivid green his shining plumes unfold,
His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold!

POPE.

* * * * *

THE HERONS OF ELMWOOD.

Silent are all the sounds of day;
Nothing I hear but the chirp of crickets,
And the cry of the herons winging their way
O'er the poet's house in the Elmwood thickets.

Call to him, herons, as slowly you pass
To your roosts in the haunts of the exiled thrushes,
Sing him the song of the green morass,
And the tides that water the reeds and rushes.

Sing him the mystical song of the Hern,
And the secret that baffles our utmost seeking;
For only a sound of lament we discern,
And cannot interpret the words you are speaking.

Sing of the