"Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Coo-coo!
Let me speak a word, too!
Who stole that pretty nest From little yellow-breast?"
"Not I," said the sheep; "Oh, no!
I wouldn"t treat a poor bird so.
I gave wool the nest to line, But the nest was none of mine.
Baa! Baa!" said the sheep, "Oh, no I wouldn"t treat a poor bird so."
"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!
Will you listen to me?
Who stole four eggs I laid, And the nice nest I made?"
"Bob-o"-link! Bob-o"-link!
Now what do you think?
Who stole a nest away From the plum-tree, to-day?"
"Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Coo-coo!
Let me speak a word, too!
Who stole that pretty nest From little yellow-breast?"
"Caw! Caw!" cried the crow; "I should like to know What thief took away A bird"s nest, to-day?"
"Cluck! Cluck!" said the hen; "Don"t ask me again, Why I haven"t a chick Would do such a trick.
We all gave her a feather, And she wove them together.
I"d scorn to intrude On her and her brood.
Cluck! Cluck!" said the hen, "Don"t ask me again."
"Chirr-a-whirr! Chirr-a-whirr!
All the birds make a stir!
Let us find out his name, And all cry "For shame!""
"I would not rob a bird,"
Said little Mary Green; "I think I never heard Of anything so mean."
"It is very cruel, too,"
Said little Alice Neal; "I wonder if he knew How sad the bird would feel?"
A little boy hung down his head, And went and hid behind the bed, For he stole that pretty nest From poor little yellow-breast; And he felt so full of shame, He didn"t like to tell his name.
Lydia Maria Child.
_Answer to a Child"s Question_
Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove, The linnet, and thrush say, "I love and I love!"
In the winter they"re silent, the wind is so strong; What it says I don"t know, but it sings a loud song.
But green leaves and blossoms, and sunny warm weather, And singing and loving, all come back together; Then the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, The green fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings, and he sings, and forever sings he, "I love my Love, and my Love loves me."
Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
_The Burial of the Linnet_
Found in the garden dead in his beauty-- Oh that a linnet should die in the spring!
Bury him, comrades, in pitiful duty, m.u.f.fle the dinner-bell, solemnly ring.
Bury him kindly, up in the corner; Bird, beast, and goldfish are sepulchred there Bid the black kitten march as chief mourner, Waving her tail like a plume in the air.
Bury him n.o.bly--next to the donkey; Fetch the old banner, and wave it about; Bury him deeply--think of the monkey, Shallow his grave, and the dogs got him out.
Bury him softly--white wool around him, Kiss his poor feathers--the first kiss and last; Tell his poor widow kind friends have found him: Plant his poor grave with whatever grows fast.
Farewell, sweet singer! dead in thy beauty, Silent through summer, though other birds sing, Bury him, comrades, in pitiful duty, m.u.f.fle the dinner-bell, mournfully ring.
Juliana Horatia Ewing.
_The t.i.tmouse_
. . . . Piped a tiny voice hard by, Gay and polite, a cheerful cry, _Chic-chicadeedee!_ saucy note Out of sound heart and merry throat, As if it said, "Good-day, good sir!
Fine afternoon, old pa.s.senger!
Happy to meet you in these places, Where January brings few faces."
This poet, though he live apart, Moved by his hospitable heart, Sped, when I pa.s.sed his sylvan fort, To do the honors of his court, As fits a feathered lord of land; Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hand; Hopped on the bough, then, darting low, Prints his small impress on the snow, Shows feats of his gymnastic play, Head downward, clinging to the spray,
Here was this atom in full breath, Hurling defiance at vast death.
This sc.r.a.p of valor, just for play, Fronts the north wind in waistcoat gray.
Ralph Waldo Emerson.
_Birds in Summer_