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ADRIFT.

BY MRS. M. E. SANGSTER

Adrift upon a silver tide,
With banks of green on either side,
And, far above, a smiling sky,
A tiny craft goes floating by.

Queer little boat, this woven nest,
Where birdies three had tranquil rest
Until a rough wind shook the tree,
And sent them sailing off to sea.

Oh, father-bird and mother-bird,
In you what trouble will be stirred
When, home returned from weary flight,
You learn your babies' hapless plight!


THE IDLE HOUR

The robin sings on the topmost bough of the spreading maple-tree,
Where the cool green leaves to the whispering breeze are nodding merrily;
The sunbeams bright from the azure sky go frolicking here and there,
And the breath of the clover blossom lies sweet on the summer air,

And under the trees so restfully, where the shadows softest lie,
Like a woodland nymph in her netted couch between fair earth and sky,
Behold our dainty darling, safe hidden from friends away,
Content with the merry sunshine, the robin, and breeze to stay.