I will tell

MY ROBIN.

you of my robin;

A pretty bird was he,

As gay and full of mirthfulness,
As any bird could be.

Perhaps his plumage was not gay,
As some fine birds are dressed,
But then his eyes were bright as stars,
And red his downy breast.

Upon my shoulder he would sit,

And hop around my feet; Confiding and affectionate,

He from my hand would eat.

As soon as the bright morning dawned,
His song you'd always hear,

And then at night, his vesper hymn,
So musical and clear.

He filled the house with melody,
He filled my heart with glee,
He was a plaything, and a pet,
A happiness to me.

But O, I lost my gentle bird!
His fate was dark and sad;
I wept for hours, and felt as if
I never could be glad.

I always shall remember him,
While thought and memory last;
He is one of my bright pictures
Of a childhood that has passed.

One pleasant summer's day, I went to ride with my Uncle Robert. As we were passing through a wood where

"Wild birds were singing,

And sweet flowers were springing,"

my uncle stopped his horse that he might hear more distinctly the various voices that came from the forest.

While we sat listening to these sweet sounds, we saw a little bird fall from a tree quite near us. It was a young robin making its first attempt to fly; the mother-bird was fluttering round, trying to teach it, I suppose; but the little one had not strength, and it fell to the ground. "O, I wish I had that dear little bird," said I. "Just step out of the chaise and get it," said my uncle. "Quick, quick, before Ranger comes." Ranger was a dog, who always accompanied us on our drives, running on before the horse, sometimes suddenly disappearing in the woods, and then as suddenly bounding along the road again. I often envied Ranger the liberty he had of going just where he chose.

My uncle thought I should not be quick enough, and springing from the chaise himself, caught the bird, just as Ranger came up, and put it safely into my hands. Poor Robin! How frightened he was, and how I pitied him! I held him as gently as I could, and as soon as we reached home, my uncle purchased me a cage, and Bobbie was lord of his own mansion. A most undesirable situation for a bird. I very well knew that they like to fly through the pure blue air, upward and

downward, and make the forest ring with their clear sweet voices, and I wonder now, how I could have been so thoughtless and so selfish as to deprive a wild bird of its freedom.

He

Bobbie seemed lonely at first, but he never refused food and water, and he soon became so tame and confiding that he would eat from my hand. We often opened the door of his cage, and let him hop about the room, and peck crumbs from the breakfast table. had no opportunity of hearing the notes of other birds, so my uncle thought he would teach him to sing. He whistled to him every day, then Bob would whistle and imitate his notes correctly. At last Bob learned to whistle the tune of Yankee Doodle, and a part of another tune. I do not remember how long he was in becoming so accomplished, but I remember that he did become so, and he was the wonder of the neighborhood, and the delight of my heart.

I had another pet; it was Bessie the cat. One of my favorite amusements had been to play with and tease poor Bessie. I did not mean to tease her, but very young children rarely play with a cat without hurting her sometimes. Bessie was not beautiful; she was

grey, and very long and thin, with yellow eyes that looked kindly upon me. She had a sedate face and manner, and rarely condescended to play herself, though she so willingly allowed me to use her as a plaything. But she was old, and I was young, and that made the difference in our tastes. Yet there were times when she was as animated as cat could be. If she heard a mysterious sound like the nibbling of a mouse, or the stealthy footstep of a rat, who was more excited than Bess! In the garden, too, she would look longingly after the birds, and in the house she became Bobbie's declared enemy. Once with extended claws she sprung upon his cage, and so frightened him, that we feared he would die. One day we thought we had lost him; by some means the door of the cage came open, and he flew forth into the garden. Upward he soared, de- ' lighted with his new power, then he rested upon a spreading elm, and sung Yankee Doodle. We called him by all tender and endearing names, sweet Bobbie! pretty Bobbie! dear Bobbie! but he regarded us from afar with a most independent air. Then my uncle whistled all the familiar notes they had so often whistled together, and beseechingly held out his hands. Bobbie seemed to hesitate, but at last an irresistible impulse