dwellers in our old tree. Jays were constantly inquiring how the nestlings were getting on, an inquisitive Magpie peeped into the nest, trying to get a glimpse of the pretty ones, and received a sharp peck from the angry father as a reproof for the intrusion; as to the motherly Rooks, who were supposed to care for nothing save their own family concerns, they kindly advised the young parents how to rear the brood, saying, 'Care, care,' was all that was necessary; nay, it is even recorded, as an undoubted fact, that an old Owl, who had lived for ages in a hole in the tree, actually opened her eyes quite wide when the news was first told to her, although it was broad daylight! You may imagine, then, how happy they were, surrounded thus by kindness and love; and yet—I suppose it is but right there are ever shadows as well as sunshine, and, sad though it seems, every life must have bitters mingled with the sweets; still they were so joyous in that tiny nest! Why, ah, why was their happiness to be clouded? Alas, it grieves me even now to tell, though many long years have since then passed away!

One day the father-bird went from the nest, and never returned!

Long and patiently waited his little mate, hoping each moment to hear his welcome note, as swiftly he winged his way back to her. But the day wore on, the evening sun grew golden, then faded in the purple west—but still he came not! The other dwellers in the oak returned to their homes, yet they brought no tidings of the wanderer. After a while their happy voices were hushed in sleep, the Blackbird ceased to warble his evening hymn, and all were buried in slumber, and at rest!

All? Ah, no! the lonely mourner was waking still, gazing up with sad, sad eyes at the starry heavens above, asking the night-winds as they moaned around:

'Will he not return to me?'

Days passed, slowly dragging their length wearily on for the lonely bird in that desolate nest. Yet, though her heart was breaking, she tended her tiny nestlings, neglecting none of her daily duties; for his dear sake she loved them yet the more, hoping as each day came it would bring him back, and striving to imagine his delight when he returned, and found his young ones almost fledged. But still the days dawned, the weary hours went by, the sickness of hope deferred would fall upon her loving heart, crushing it almost to breaking; yet bravely she struggled with her woe. It was when the holy stars shone down, gazing pityingly at her meekly raised eyes, and she was alone in stillness with her great sorrow, that then would she murmur with a bitter cry,—

'When will he come home to me again?'

Yet still he came not!

Then her brave heart gave way. In vain the other birds tried to comfort her; she could not be comforted, for he she so dearly loved 'was not.'

'Do not grieve, do not grieve—cheer thee, che-eer thee,' sang the Robin, as he perched beside her.

Or the Thrush tried to advise, saying, 'Don't fret, don't fret; 'tis a pity, 'tis a pity!'

But one bright sunny day a Swallow came flying along. He had just returned from far distant lands, and all the other birds gathered chittering around him, eager to hear the news he had brought. He told them of much he had seen whilst on the wing; also that he was the pioneer, his brothers would soon rejoin him, for Summer was coming; he had heard her heralds in the fields and groves, had marked her flower-decked path in forest and in lane. But what was summer to the heart-broken Wren? There would be no sunshine for her, since he was not there—he who was her all.

'Oh, Swallow,' she timidly asked, 'have you seen my own love?'

Then the eyes of the Swallow became tear-dimmed, as sadly he replied,—

'Little Jenny Wren, I have!'

'Where—oh, where?' she cried in thrilling accents.

He hesitated a few moments, though to her impatience it seemed hours; he wished to spare her further agony if he could—but the truth must be told.

'Tell me, tell me,' she pleaded, impatient at the delay.

'In a prison,' was the reply.

'In a prison!' she repeated, horror-struck at the disclosure; then she added, 'I will go to him, and share his captivity.'

'Nay, nay,' remonstrated a motherly Sparrow; 'your little ones—think—think—see—see!'

Sadly she drooped her head upon her breast; her heart was divided between a mother's duty and a wife's love.

'I will take care of the nestlings,' said a young Linnet; 'they shall feed with my little ones, I will shelter them under my wings.'

Gratefully the poor wee bird looked at her generous friend; words were not needed to express her thanks.

'Take me to him,' she piteously asked, turning to the Swallow.

'I shall pass that way to-morrow,' he said, 'for I must go and meet my comrades, to guide them here. You can go with me; I will take you to where he is imprisoned.'

The next morning, before the sun had risen, away flew the Swallow, and with him the little Wren. She heeded not that the valleys were still shrouded in mist, or that the cold grey dawn yet lingered in the skies; was not her sunshine coming? should she not soon see him who was her brightness? The day wore on, and onward still by the Swallow's side, she, with untiring pinions, winged her way; she suffered not from noontide heat, she felt not even the pangs of hunger or thirst, for her heart was filled with hope. But towards evening her pitying guide led her over a hot, murky town; the very sky above it was hidden by the thick atmosphere of smoke which seemed completely to envelope it; the two birds could scarcely breathe, the air was so dense with poisonous gases.

'It cannot be here?' she gasped, as suddenly the Swallow paused in his rapid flight.

'See, see!' was his exclamation.

Then, raising her heavy eyes, she saw, suspended from a high window, a small wire cage, and in it—her long-lost mate!

He was resting on a low perch, with his poor aching head beneath his wing; his pretty brown feathers were no longer smoothly plumed, but hung ragged and tattered around his wasted form, so different to the bright, bonnie bird of the long-ago! But she heeded not the change; to her he was as beautiful, ay, and more dear than ever, so, flying up, she clung with eager feet to the cruel bars which kept her from him, and, pressing her beak as close as possible to the cage, she murmured,—

'I am here, love!'

At the sound of that sweet voice, so well remembered by the captive, he raised his drooped head, and, gazing at her with all the old loving tenderness, whispered feebly,—

'Is it you, Jenny? Ah, I knew you would come!'

And every evening found her there. Patiently would she stay near the prisoner throughout the dark watches of the night, cheering her loved one because she was near; but when the grey dawn came stealing over the skies, away she would fly back to the nest in the oak, and during the day would carefully tend her little ones, fulfilling thus her double duty as wife and mother. Then when the evening star appeared, telling her of the gloaming, she would hush her nestlings with a soothing lullaby, and, when they were sleeping, would swiftly fly to her imprisoned mate, bearing in her beak a sprig of moss, or a leaf from the well-remembered spot where they had been so happy in the spring-time of their life; and when she reached the prison, if her loved one was grieving, pining for the liberty he had lost, the home ties thus rudely broken, her sweet voice murmuring, 'I am here, love,' seemed to bring comfort to that poor failing heart; and as she tenderly pressed her cool, fresh beak