L. H.

(A chirping is heard in the basket.) My friend there is rather anxious to O appear and prefer his charge. (Mr. F. takes from the basket a small bird-cage, wherein is seen a linnet.) He had his house robbed by you or some one. Lit tle did I think any child of mine would ever be a housebreaker.

R. Now, father, do you call it housebreaking to rob a bird's nest of a few eggs? Why, the birds soon get more; and almost every body takes birds' nests when they find them. Besides, if the eggs were not to be taken, there would be so many birds they would eat up all the corn, and we should be starved to death. Why, farmer Dickson's son told me, that they kept several boys to frighten away the crows from the cornfield; and that they were sometimes shooting at larks, sparrows, and goldfinches, all day long.

if he shoots the smaller birds also, I cannot blame him he does it to protect his property.

R. True, father. But you have not said a word about the birds eating us all up, if we were not to take their eggs. Why, there would be so many birds, the world would soon be full of them!

Mr. F. Truly, Robert, we are under great obligations to you for protection; but, I dare say, whenever we are in such great danger as you speak of, better means will be devised to avert it, than encouraging young children, like yourselves, to harden your hearts by birdnesting. Let me ask you, Robert, when you robbed this poor bird of her eggs, if you did it to prevent the world being filled with birds, and the people from being famished to death for want of corn?

R. No; I did not think about that; but only of getting the pretty little speckled eggs, and running a thread through them.

F. Poor little bird! how he pecks against the wires of his cage to get out! E. And see how he clings to the perch with his little feet! We must hear his complaint, father, that he may be set at liberty.

he looks so pretty in that little cage: and we can take more care of him than he can of himself.

Mr. F. I should think he would hardly like to trust you, after your treatment of him. Who is there that has ever heard these feathery warblers strain their little throats with all the melody that life and liberty inspire,-who that has ever followed them, as they winged their way from flowery brake to woodland dell, rejoicing in their freedom,-can pen them up in a wiry prison, benumbing their wings, and changing their song of gladness to one of sorrow? Eliza, my love, reach us Beattie's Minstrel. How beautiful are the expressions therein about confining birds in cages!

E. (after reaching the book.) Here they are, father; they are favorite lines of mine. (Reads)

O let them ne'er, with artificial note, To please a tyrant, strain the little bill; But sing what heaven inspires, and wander where they will.'

Mr. F. This poor bird was not only despoiled of his eggs, but robbed of his young. After all the toil of building his nest; all the patience of his mate in hatching their eggs; after all their trouble in providing food for their young ones; just as they were about to see them leave their nest, and accompany them in their happy flights, then their little ones were taken away and hard, or thought! less, must be the heart of the child who could thus wantonly inflict upon them such a calamity, without any motive but

that of possessing what did not belong to him. The little prisoner must now be set at liberty; but first we must have the statement of his sorrows.

THE LINNET'S COMPLAINT.

• Оn, I have lost my little ones! And every coming morrow Will be, at best, a time of woe,

Of heaviness, and sorrow! The bush may bud; the morning sun Shed round his golden glory; The moon may give her golden light; but all Revive my mournful story.

For what avail the glittering beam,

Though bright surpassing measure,-
The silvery moon,-the flowery thorn,—
When we have lost our treasure?

And why should man with envy view
The blessings that are lent us?
What right has he, ruthless to rob,
To ruin, and torment us?

We build our nests with anxious pain;
Bring up our young with care;
And then are left, despoil'd and lone,
To languish in despair.

When caged, we do but droop and mourn,
And sing a note of sadness;
'Tis no more like our woodland song

Than sorrow is like gladness.

How happy were my mate and I,

What time the skies were fair,
And spring was smiling on the earth,
Around her tender care!

We brought them food from yonder dell ;
It was a sweet employ ;

And waved our wings, and trill'd our song,
Wild with excess of joy.

But now a cloud hangs o'er our heads;
The past is turn'd to pain;

And never, never will return Those happy days again.

Oh, we have lost our little ones!
And every coming morrow
Will be a day of bitterness,

Of heaviness, and sorrow!'

F. Dear me, how unhappy the poor bird is! O, it is very cruel to rob a bird of its young.

C. We certainly shall never forget, father, the lessons you have taken the trouble to prepare for us. I am sorry you should have had occasion to lecture us, but do trust that you will not again perceive in us a disposition to be cruel. Mr. F. It was Robert that took the linnet's eggs at one time, and the young birds at another; and, though he meant to use the latter kindly, they all died: and you well know that Eliza wrote on paper, over the little grave she dug for them, the following words, which I copied with my pencil :

'Here lie little linnets,
Surrounded with clay :
From parents and home

They were taken away.
Their shroud it was made,

And their grave dug by me ;
And this bit of paper

Their tombstone shall be.

I gaze on their death-bed
With sorrow and sigh,

;

A bird is but dust; then,

Alas! what am I?"

I contrived to take the old linnet without hurting him, as he was moaning on the bush nearest to where his nest was built; and now we will set him at liberty.

(Opens the window and the cage-door.)' F. O; let us give him something before he goes. Poor thing! I will fetch him

some crums.

Mrs. F. No, my dear, never mind; he is too anxious to go, to wait for your crums: besides, he has plenty in the cage.

(The linnet flies through the window.) R. Well, I have acted unkindly; but no linnet shall ever say again that I robbed him. Yet really, father, if I were a bird, I would rather live in a nice, clean, gilt cage, like that on the table, and be fed every day, than be out in the wind and rain, and feed on worms and berries.

Mr. F. That, Robert, is a mistake of yours. Were you a bird, your desires would be widely different from what they now are. Different creatures have different tastes. If you give a dog a bone on a silver dish, he will immediately pull the bone from the dish and run away with it, preferring to gnaw it in the dust in secret, rather than avail himself of your unsuitable accommodation. And a bird prefers the hips and haws on the bushes, with liberty without bars, to all the dainty meats you can crowd into a golden cage.

(A noise is heard in the opposite room, and a violent scratching at the closet-door.) R. Bless me! that great big thing is getting out of the closet, I am sure! (Eliza and Fanny draw near their mother, and Charles goes towards the door.) C. I am afraid we have more reason to fear having injured him, than that he will injure us.

your brother; for Robert is not without bravery; though he dare not meet a bear, he is bold enough to rob a bird's nest. (Enter John, leading a mastiff by his chain. The dog barks.)

Mr. F. Our guest is impatient to tell his story.

C. (approaching the dog, and patting him on the head.) Why, its farmer Jefferson's house-dog!-poor Bell!

R. (peeping from behind his mother and sisters, and talking to himself.) Then I shall stay where I am; for I fancy, if he see me, John will hardly be able to hold him. I wish I had let him alone. Somebody has been telling all about it.

Mrs. F. Do not crush me so, Robert : You see it is not a bear, but only a dog, and a good-tempered one too. He is very quiet with Charles: why do not you go and pat him on the head, as your brother does ?

R. O, I never was fond of dogs.
(As Robert speaks, the dog holds up his
head, and begins to growl.)

R. (to himself.) I wish that dog a thousand miles off: I shall have him spring over the table at me. (Speaking loudly.) I don't think you are holding the chain fast, John.

(Bell, hearing Robert's voice, again growls.) Mr. F. Ay, ay, hold the chain fast, John, be sure. Perhaps Mr. Bell will be pacified by my reading his complaint for him. Could you not hear it better, Rob ert, on this side of the table?

R. I can hear it very well here, father. I shall disturb mother if I come round.

Mr. F. Well, if that be the case, you are better where you are. I am glad to see you so considerate: we should ever be careful how we trespass on the comfort of others. (Reads.)

POOR BELL'S COMPLAINT.

'I live at farmer Jefferson's,

By name they call me Bell; And I have serv'd my master longI think I serve him well.

A throng of boys were at the gate;
I pass'd in evil hour
They coax'd me with a piece of bread,
And got me in their power.

And then they gather'd pebble stones,

Which I may well bewail; They put them in a canister,

And tied it to my tail.

I fled affrighted at the sound,
Wondering what it could be
That ran so very very fast,

And kept so close to me.

Panting and breathless with my speed, My tongue as hot as fire,

I could not leave my foe behind,

He seem'd to come the nigher.

And still I ran with eager haste,
And cours'd the village round;
And still that hated canister
Was rattling on the ground.
It seem'd some dreadful thing to me;
Behind I durst not look ;

But onward held my flying course,

Through brake, and briar, and bro And then they met me in the lane,

And nearly broke my bones With broomstick, brickbat, broken glass, And tiles, and sticks, and stones.