WHEN SPARROWS BUILD

DO you remember a tale in a certain old-fashioned story-book, popular in its day as are any of Lewis Carroll's or KnatchbullHugessen's nowadays, the childish hero of which is represented in a chronic and most unenviable state of indecision as to which of the four seasons he liked best? In spring the never-to-be-satisfied infant wished it were 'always spring;' and so on with summer, autumn, and winter in their respective turns. Well, for my part, though I fully appreciate the delights of skating, sliding, and snowballing, though I more than appreciate the pleasure of sitting under, if not my own fig-tree, at least a gooseberry-bush in which I have full proprietary rights, I must confess my preference is given to that pleasant season when, after the long death-like silence of winter, the birds begin to revisit us, and having engaged lodgings from the trees, their landlords set about preparing for their reception by decking their abodes with the freshest and sweetest of greenery.