THE KING-FISHER. HE King-fisher is one of the brightest in colour of British birds, though many are more elegant in shape. Indeed his thick body, large head, long bill, and short stumpy tail, would make him rather an ugly bird, were it not for the splendid tints of blue and green and gold that deck his plumage. Grow gray as the old man's, weak and poor, Tell me, O mother! shall I grow like him? He said- but I knew not what he meant- blest; Here is the way in which the clever little King-fisher procures his food, as described by one who had observed him :-See, perched on the stump of a decayed willow, jutting out from the bank, stands a Kingfisher, still and silent and ever watchful. Let us creep a little nearer, that we may observe him more closely. There he is grasping the splint with his tiny red feet, his bright blue back glistening in the sunshine, his ruddy breast reflected from the pool beneath, his long dagger-like bill pointed downwards, and his eye intent on the minnows that swarm among the roots of the old tree. He stoops, opens his wings a little, shoots downwards, plunges headlong into the water, appears again in a moment, flutters, sweeps off in a curved line, wheels round, and returns to his post. The minnow in his bill he beats against the decayed stump till it is dead, then tossing up his head, swallows it, and resumes his ordinary posture as if nothing He chased from the wild-flowers the singing had happened.' And he told how his kindred there were laid, And the friends with whom in his youth he played; And the tears from the eyes of the old man fell, And my sisters wept as they heard his tale! He spoke of a home, where in childhood's glee bee; And followed afar, with a heart as light One lesson we may all learn from the King-fisher is to do the work which God gives us to do quietly. There was a good lady once on whose gravestone there was written, 'She was always busy and always Of the sun's fair light, by his own blue quiet.' Some people are always busy, but streams: Yet he left all these, through the world to roam! Why, O mother! did he leave his home?' 'Calm thy young thoughts, my own fair child! The fancies of youth and age are beguiled. Though pale grow thy cheeks, and thy hair turn gray, Time cannot steal the soul's youth away! There's a Land, of which thou hast heard me speak, Where age never wrinkles the dweller's cheek; But in joy they live, fair child, like theeIt was there the old man longed to be! For he knew that those with whom he had played In his heart's young joy, 'neath their cottage shade Whose love he shared, when their songs and mirth Brightened the gloom of this sinful earthWhose names from our world had passed away, As flowers in the breath of an autumn day; He knew that they, with all suffering done, Encircled the throne of the Holy One! Though ours be a pillared and lofty home, Where Want, with his pale train, never may come, Oh, scorn not the poor with the scorner's jest, Who seek in the shade of our hall to rest! Oh, soften the griefs of the poor, my child!' CATARACTS AND RILLS. THE HE Rev. Albert Barnes beautifully says, that it is the bubbling stream which flows gently, the little rivulet which runs along day and night by the farmhouse, that is useful, rather than the swollen flood or roaring cataract. Niagara excites our wonder, and we stand amazed at the power and greatness of God there, as it pours from the hollow of His hand. But one Niagara is enough for the continent of the world, while the same world requires thousands and tens of thousands of silver fountains and flowing rivulets, that water every farm and meadow and garden, and that flow on every day and night with their gentle, quiet beauty. So with the acts of our lives. It is not by great deeds, like those of the martyrs, that good is to be done, but by the daily and quiet virtues of life, the Christian's temper, the good qualities of relatives and friends.' |