THE SWALLOW'S NEST.
O
FTEN in former years the twitter of the birds glittering in the morning sun was the first sound that met my ear during the wakeful hours which frequently accompany illness after the worst crisis has passed, and you are recovering by degrees. The gutters ran beneath my bedroom windows, and I could see the steel-blue backs of the swallows as they sat on the rims of the gutter, twisting their little heads, opening their yellow-lined beaks, singing to their hearts' content. Whole families would perch there together, or the young would rest in rows of four or five, according to the nest-broods of each. How delightful to see them fed by their agile parents! how tantalizing to have them almost within reach of my hands, yet not to be able to catch them or give them a kiss, as they would cower in my hollow hands if I only could have got them in there!
THE BRAVE DOG OF ST. BERNARD.
HERE the St. Bernard Pass climbs up
Amid the Alpine snows,
The far-famed Hospice crowns the heights
With shelter and repose.
Its inmates, with their faithful dogs,
Are truly friends in need
When snowdrifts block the traveler's way,
And blinding storms mislead.
Brave “Barry,” once, far down the track
That crossed a glacier steep,
Found buried deep beneath the snow
A poor boy, fast asleep.
He licked the cold, numb hands and face
To warmth and life once more,
And bore him safely on his back
Up to the Hospice door.
