Now let me talk a little about them.

Four of them—the Woodpecker, Wryneck, Nuthatch,
and ‘Treecreeper—get their living by hunting for the
insects which hide in the bark of trees, and in many
ways are very curiously fitted for climbing about and
clinging to the trunks. The Woodpecker has a short,
strong tail, which serves him as a support when he is
at work, as you see in the picture. He is also pro-
vided with a very long, narrow tongue, with which
he probes the cracks and crannies of the bark, and
draws out the insects which hide there. In this way
all these pretty birds doa great deal of good; for
many of the insects they live upon would do a great
dval of harm. So you see God gives even little birds
work to do, and has made it their greatest pleasure to
do it. The Nuthatch gets its name from a way it has
of tixing a nut in vhe bark of a tree, and then hacking
at it with its beak, as with a hatchet, to get at the
kernel.

Lverybody loves Kittle Jenny Wren and her con-
fiding ways. ‘She is almost as fond of creeping up to
our houses and gardens for protection as Cock Robin
hinself, and like him has a song for us almost all the
year round. In one of Mr. Wvod’s charming books
on Natural History there is a story of a kind lady
who used to try and make friends with all the little
birds that came to her garden. Thinking the Wrens
would like a more comfortable shelter in winter than
the cold trees, she provided a bedroom for them.
This was a square box, lined with flannel, and with a
very small round hole for a door. This was fixed on
a branch, and the birds soon took advantage of it,
their numbers seeming to increase nightly, until at
last upwards of forty wrens would crowd into a box
which did not seem capable of containing half that
number. When asleep they were so drowsy that
they would permit the lid of the box to be lified, and
themselves to be handled, without attempting to
move. How pretty they must have looked, all
snuggling together so cosily! It is a pity that there
are not more people who finda pleasure in making
their little garden friends happy and comfortable.

The last we come to is the Cuckoo, that strange
bird—‘or but a wandering voice’—which we all
listen for and are so pleased to hear each returning
sping. We may well call cuckoos strange birds, as
they neither pair nor have a home of their own, but
lay their eggs in the nests of other birds. This seems
unnatural; but as we do not know why God in-
planted this instinct in their breasts we have no right
to complain of it. And year by year the Cuckoo
come; to us like a solitary prophet— a voice crying in
the wilderness’—and unencumbered by those ties of
domestic care which press upon other birds.

You very likely know the old rhyme about the
Cuckoo P

‘In April,
Come he will.
In May,
He sings all day.
In June,
He’s out of tune.
In July,
He prepares to fly.
In August,
Go he must.

And there are many pretty songs about the Cuckoo,

 

 

 

which you are sure to.meet with, and the oldest of all
English songs is said to be that beginning,—

‘Summer is a coming in,
Loudly sing Cuckoo ;
Birds and flowers around are seen
Bespangled o’er with dew.’

 

 

THE LITTLE BROWN POT.
A FABLE,

(ae there was a very wise old man—so wise that
his neighbours called him ‘ Mr. Dictionary.’ He
could spell the longest words, and could speak séven
janguages. People even said that he kmew how to
make green cheese out of moonbeams. Lut this was.
only a tale, and must not be believed. ;

He did not seem to be a happy old man, however;
for when any one talked to tin he used always to
tell them how poor he was, and how hard it was for
him, with all his learning, to earn a living. ‘If he
was 1ich,’ he used to say, ‘he should read books until
he was as wise as King Solomon,

One day he made himself a pair of spectacles;
which were so large and so good, that when he put
them on he conld see and hear every one’s thoughts,
and know what they were. He then went into his
kitchen and put the spectacles on his nose.

As soon as he looked through them, he heard such
a sighing and groaning that he almost wished to take
them off again. All the pots and pans seemed to be
talking to themselves, and not one of them seemed to
be in a good humour.

First, there was Sukey, the kettle on the hob. He
often used to think that she looked the picture of
happiness; but now he heard her saying,—

“Oh, dear! what a life thisis! I wish I was like
Master Tea-urn, who stands there on the dresser,
looking so proud. He has brass sides, and often gets
polished, and then goes into the parlour to be admired.
by the company; but Iam black like a nigger, and
all because Mrs. Cook is too lazy to clean me. Oh,
dear! How hotitis! Iam sure I shall faint!’

‘Ugh!’ said the Tea-urn, shiveling. ‘What a
draught comes from that door! I am sure I shall
catch a cold, standing here without any clothes. I
wish I had a warm, black coat, like Mrs. Kettle on
the hob there’

Then Mr. Tongs began to groan, and said,—

‘Oh, I do feel so stiff! I can’t think why the man
who made me did not put joints to my knees. It is
so very unpleasant-to have such long legs and such
high shoulders, especially when one wishes to be
polite and to make a graceful bow.’

And then Mr. Tongs threw himself down from the
fender, with a clatter that made the old man start
and turn round to see what was the cause of such a
noise.

Miss Looking-glass then bezan to complain that she
did not like to be stared at by servants. She thought
she ought to be in the parlour, and be seen by the
gentlefolk.

‘T had some fun, though, the other day,’ said she.
‘IT made Mrs. Cook think she had a black spot on
her face, and she had to go upstairs and wash