Crows, ye whoof the air are the tentless, vociferous gyisirs; Lyrical mocking wren, poet most sweet oí our birds; I to you am alïected more than the rest of our winged ones; ■Crows, ior your free content; wren, for youi true love of song. Ah, what a gush of song that gladdened the air of October Thrilling, melodious, clear, poured from the throat of the lyrist, Heard I this mom, rejoiced, as "Swoetheart, sweet, sweet!" he repeated, Music that, oeasing anon, echoed all day in my heart! Over myhead were the crows, their way to some forage ground winging; "Caw!" cried the leader, "caw, caw!" "Caw!" was passed down through the line. Them their strongpinions I envied, their keenness of visión, While the small meadow lark near fluttered and trilied a faint song. Through the whole year both the crows and the wren are resident with us; I, too, a lover of home, like them the better for that: Daily almost I see those gypsiesor hear their harsh voices; Once at least every month glads me that singer's sweet lav.