THE Spring has come," 

chirped the dear little birds

As they opened their drowsy eyes,

And shook out the fans in their pretty tails,

And turned up their heads to the skies.

'"Tis time now to look for a place to build"

So Robin engaged an elm-tree. 

The black Crow she spoke for a tall pine's top, 

Where high in the world she might be.

The Sparrow took lease of an old ox-track

With grasses to thatch it all o'er. 

"I like a low cottage," she said to herself,

"With a daisy to nod by the door."

The Swallow she fancied the corner lot 

Of the barn, 'neath the sloping eaves;

The Oriole sought for a graceful twig,

Where her cradle could rock with the breeze.

"The Spring has come," said each little flower

As she stirred in her damp, brown bed; 

First Snowdrop peeped in her neat white cap, 

Then modestly hung down her head.

"Do I hear Sir Robin!" said Crocus white, 

"Then I'm certainly late," cried she; 

And popped out her head from under the clothes, 

And looked straight into the tree.

The May-Flower woke, and she drew from the moss

On which she had pillowed her head, 

Her small waxen phials of odorous sweets

To perfume her soft, lowly bed.

"'Tis darksome down here," moaned Violet blue;

But when she crept out to the sky, 

She had to slip back just behind a green leaf, 

'T was so bright for her tender young eye.

"These rich, golden beams," said Buttercup gay, 

"I will take to my dairy brown, 

And churn them and pat them in bright little balls, 

The green of my young buds to crown."

"Oh, there is a bee!" cried Miss Clover, so red, 

"He's buzzing because I 'm not up;" 

So she sprang into sight with her sweet honey jars, 

And asked Mr. Bee in to sup.

A busy time is this fresh, bright Spring 

For Birdie and Bee and for Flowers;

There's work for each in its own little world, 

And joy just the same as in ours.

St. Nicholas