“To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! 
   Will you listen to me? 
   Who stole four eggs I laid,
   And the nice nest I made?”

[Illustration]

  “Bob-o’-link!  Bob-o’-link! 
   Now, what do you think? 
   Who stole a nest away
   From the plum tree, to-day?”

  “Coo-coo!  Coo-coo!  Coo-coo! 
   Let me speak a word, too! 
   Who stole that pretty nest
   From little yellow-breast?”

  “Caw!  Caw!” cried the crow;
  “I should like to know
   What thief took away
   A bird’s nest to-day?”

“Cluck!  Cluck!” said the hen,
“Don’t ask me again. 
Why, I haven’t a chick
Would do such a trick. 
We all gave her a feather,
And she wove them together. 
I’d scorn to intrude
On her and her brood. 
Cluck!  Cluck!” said the hen,
“Don’t ask me again.”

  “Chirr-a-whirr!  Chirr-a-whirr! 
   All the birds make a stir! 
   Let us find out his name,
   And all cry, ‘For shame!’”

  “I would not rob a bird,”
   Said little Mary Green;
  “I think I never heard
   Of anything so mean.”

  “It is very cruel, too,”
   Said little Alice Neal;
  “I wonder if he knew
   How sad the bird would feel?”

A little boy hung down his head,
And went and hid behind the bed;
For he stole that pretty nest
From poor little yellow-breast;
And he felt so full of shame,
He didn’t like to tell his name.

In this little dialogue, what part do the birds take?  What part do the animals take?

THE FIRST SNOWFALL

By James Russell Lovell

The snow had begun in the gloaming,
  And busily all the night
Had been heaping field and highway
  With a silence deep and white.

Every pine and fir and hemlock
  Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
And the poorest twig on the elm tree
  Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara
  Came Chanticleer’s muffled crow,
The stiff rails were softened to swan’s-down,
  And still fluttered down the snow.

I stood and watched by the window
  The noiseless work of the sky,
And the sudden flurries of snowbirds,
  Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn
  Where a little headstone stood;
How the flakes were folding it gently,
  As did robins the babes in the wood.

Up spoke our own little Mabel,
  Saying, “Father, who makes it snow?”
And I told of the good All-father
  Who cares for us here below.

[Illustration]

Again I looked at the snowfall,
  And thought of the leaden sky
That arched o’er our first great sorrow,
  When that mound was heaped so high.

I remembered the gradual patience
  That fell from that cloud like snow,
Flake by flake, healing and hiding
  The scar of our deep-plunged woe.