briers have grown three inches since they were last cut off. This path must be cleared out at once," and the old rabbit falls to cutting down the briers. By the time he has finished the path a dozen other rabbits have assembled in the clover field. When he appears among them, there is a thump, and all look up; some one runs to greet the newcomer; they touch whiskers, and then return to their eating.

But now the feast is finished and the games are on. Four or five of the rabbits have come together for a turn at hop-skip-and-jump. And such hop-skipand-jump! They are professionals at this sport, every one of them. There is not a rabbit in the game that cannot leap five times higher than he can reach on his tiptoes and hop a clean ten feet.

Over and over they go, bounding and bouncing, snapping from their marvelous hind legs as if shot from a spring trap. It is the greatest jumping exhibition that you will ever see. To have such legs as these is the next best thing to having wings.

They are chasing each other over the grass in a game of tag. There go two, round and round, tagging and retagging, first one being "it" and then the other. Their circle widens and draws nearer to the woods. This time round they will touch the bush behind which we are watching. Here they come there they go; they will leap the log yonder.

Flash! Squeak! Scurry! Not a rabbit in the field! Yes; one rabbit— the limp, lifeless one hanging over the neck of that fox trotting off yonder in the shadows along the border of the woods!

The picnic is over for this night, and it will be a long time before the cottontails so far forget themselves as to play in this place again.

It is small wonder that animals do not laugh. From the day they are born, instinct and training are bent toward the circumvention of enemies. There is no time to play; no chance, no cause for laughter.

The little brown rabbit has least reason of all to be glad, and yet he is glad. He is utterly inoffensive, the enemy of none, but the victim of many. Before he knows his mother, he understands the meaning of Be ready! Watch! The winds whisper them; the birds call them; every leaf, every twig, every shadow and sound, says, "Be ready! Watch!" Life is but a series of escapes; little else than vigilance and flight. He must sleep with eyes open, feed with ears up, move with muffled feet, and at short stages he must stop, rise on his long hind legs, and listen and look. If he ever forgets, if he pauses one moment for a wordless, noiseless game with his fellows, he dies. For safety's sake he lives alone; but even a rabbit has fits of sociability and gives way at times to his feelings. The owl and the fox know

FIFTH READER-Z

this, and they watch the open glades and field edges. They must surprise him.

The barred owl is quick at dodging, but Bunny is quicker. It is the owl's soft, shadow-silent wings that are dreaded. They spirit him through the dusk like a huge moth, wavering and aimless, with dangling dragon claws. But his drop is quick and certain, and the grip of those loosely hanging legs is the very grip of death. There is no terror like the ghost terror of the owl.

The fox is feared; but then, he is on legs, not wings, and there are telltale winds that fly before him, far ahead, whispering, "Fox, fox, fox!" ReyBunny is foresighted, wide awake, Sometimes he is caught napping but if in wits he is not always Reynard's equal, in speed he holds his own very well

nard is cunning. and fleet of foot.

so are we all;

with his enemy.

- DALLAS LORE SHARP.

THE SONG SPARROW

THERE is a bird I know so well,
It seems as if he must have sung
Beside my crib when I was young;
Before I knew the way to spell

The name of even the smallest bird,
His gentle, joyful song I heard.

Now see if you can tell, my dear,
What bird it is, that every year,

Sings "Sweet

"Sweet-sweet-sweet-very merry cheer."

He comes in March, when winds are strong,
And snow returns to hide the earth;

But still he warms his head with mirth,
And waits for May. He lingers long
While flowers fade, and every day
Repeats his sweet, contented lay;
As if to say we need not fear

The seasons' change, if love is here,

With "Sweet-sweet-sweet-very merry cheer."

He does not wear a Joseph's coat

Of many colors, smart and gay;
His suit is Quaker brown and gray,
With darker patches at his throat.
And yet of all the well-dressed throng,
Not one can sing so brave a song.
It makes the pride of looks appear
A vain and foolish thing to hear

His "Sweet sweet

From

sweet

The Builders and other Poems."

Copyright, 1897, by Charles Scribner's Sons.

very merry cheer."

HENRY VAN DYKE.

MY BRUTE NEIGHBORS

THE mice which haunted my house were not the common ones, which are said to have been introduced into the country, but a wild native kind not found in the village. When I was building, one of these had its nest underneath the house, and before I had laid the second floor and swept out the shavings, would come out regularly at lunch time and pick up the crumbs at my feet. It probably had never seen a man before; and it soon became quite familiar and would run over my shoes and up my clothes. It could readily ascend the sides of the room by short impulses, like the squirrel, which it resembled in its

motions.

At length, as I leaned with my elbow on the bench one day, it ran up my clothes and along my sleeve and round and round the paper which held my dinner, while I kept the latter closed, and dodged and played at bopeep with it; and when at last I held still a piece of cheese between my thumb and finger, it came and nibbled it, sitting in my hand, and afterwards cleaned its face and paws, like a fly, and walked away.

A phoebe soon built in my shed, and a robin for protection in a pine which grew against the house. In June the partridge, which is so shy a bird, led her