They'll come again to the apple tree,
Robin and all the rest;

When the orchard branches are fair to see
In the snow of the blossoms drest;
And the prettiest thing in the world will be
The building of the nest.

NATURALIST who lived near
my home in Northern New Jersey,
and whose chief pleasure was de-
rived from a study of the seasons
in their everchanging phases, told

me that our neighbourhood was in the migratory path of the birds in the spring and the autumn. He had counted not less than fifty-one varieties of birds that paused or stayed around our homes in the sweetness of the spring. Near my house, in a field, stands an old apple tree, the last survivor of what was once a thrifty orchard. The apples it bears are small and gnarled, although every

spring it puts forth a brave show of exquisite blossoms. But its charm to me is in the shelter it gives to successive families of birds returning year by year to weave their nests among the branches and carry on their loving tasks of caring for the fledglings, feeding them, teaching them to fly and singing the while as though life were one glad dream of praise. Birds work hard for their living. They are encompassed by a thousand alarms, a thousand perils. Yet father-bird and mother-bird share in the ceaseless vigilance, the dauntless patience, the subtle zest, the triumphant joy of bringing up a family. The mother-bird in her nest is a type of the human mother in her nursery. The mother-bird cuddles her babies beneath her breast. The human mother holds hers close to her throbbing heart. Night falls and birds and babies alike are safe in the guardianship of the nest.

In the household thrice blessed are the little ones who are folded safe under the hovering, brooding and protecting wing of the mother. Mother-love makes light of self-denial, cares nought for sacrifice, is infinitely tender to the very end. If there happen to be in the circle a child that is feeble, crippled or ill, unduly sensitive, less able than the rest to bear the brunt of the world, that child receives most of the mother-brooding.

The little ones cling to the mother,
With kisses that softly fall

But somehow the troublesome baby
Is nearest her heart of all,
Ill and fretful and small,

But dearest to mother of all.

The neighbours wonder and pity,
Hearing its querulous cry.

"She is losing her youth and beauty,"
Say friends as they pass her by:
"Well were the babe to die,

And the mother have rest," they sigh.

But over the wee white cradle,

Her soft eyes full of prayer,
Bendeth the weary mother;
And never was face so fair,
Pale, and tired with care,
But the glory of love is there!

Rosy and round and dimpled,
Dewy with childish sleep,
She tucks in her other darlings,
Whom angels watch and keep.
Ah, if a darker angel
Anear this treasure creep!

Bless thee, beautiful mother!

One morning I received a letter from an unknown friend in a distant state. The letter was brave and simple, womanly and strong, a message straight from the heart of a little mother who surely had plenty to do and who seemed to know very well how to do it. The letter ran like this: "We live on a farm deep in the country, but we have a church within two miles, though we do not have preaching every Sunday. We have Sunday-school, and prayer meeting once a week, and a Christmas-tree every year. I must tell you about my children. We have five boys and six girls. Laddie, the big brother, was fifteen in December. The baby is six months old, so you see it has been very hard for me. I must tell you how I get along with my work. We have a maid who has worked for us nine years; she is like one of the family. I do all my own sewing, for it costs as much to get anything made as the cloth is worth. The children and I take care of the garden and chickens. Seven of the children go to school; they go at eight o'clock and get back at five; each one carries his or her dinner pail. I have to comb four curly heads. Our oldest girl combs her own now. She was fourteen in February. We have a graded school, so you see I do not get much help while they go to school, but I am willing to do all

་

I can if they only grow up to be good men and women, who will love God and fear Him."

From that little home, with its mother-brooding, from the little schoolhouse to which the children daily troop with their dinner pails, are coming men and women to take a share in the world's work.

No little courage, tact and discretion, and certainly no little measure of health and vitality are the imperative needs of the mother whose eleven children have been given her in fifteen years. "To bear, to nurse, to rear," have been for her the portion of the day's work. To manage the children, sew for them, mend their garments, send them to school daily, with their dinner pails and a kiss, pray beside their beds at night, love them, train them to be virtuous and God-fearing, what a task this mother has had! How tranquilly she has accepted the trivial round of daily duty is evident in every line of her letter, a letter that thrilled me like a strain of martial music.

Fun and freedom are the advantages inherited by those curly heads. The eleven children help in bringing one another up. What might be hardships in a luxurious environment where the ordinary American family of two or three children is started on the road, are merely incidental pleasures in this farmstead of the west. The large family