Is the voice of my little daughter.

Four years and a half since she was born,
The blackcaps piping cheerily,--
And so, as she came in winter with them,
She is called our Chicadee.

She sings to her dolls, she sings alone,
And singing round the house she goes,--
Out-doors or within, her happy heart
With a childlike song o'erflows.

Her mother and I, though busy, hear,--
With mingled pride and pleasure listening,--
And thank the inspiring Giver of song,
While a tear in our eye is glistening.

Oh! many a bird of sweetest song
I hear, when in woods or meads I roam;
But sweeter by far than all, to me,
Is my Chicadee at home.

* * * * *

THE ILLUSTRIOUS OBSCURE.


A SECOND LETTER FROM PAUL POTTER, OF NEW YORK, TO THE DON ROBERTO
WAGONERO, COMMORANT OF WASHINGTON, IN THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA.