Chapter M: Arnold (3)

Not I, said the dog, bow-wow!
I wouldn't be so mean as that, now,
I gave hairs the nest to make,
But the nest I did not take.
Not I, said the dog, bow-wow!
I wouldn't be so mean as that, now.

Not I, said the sheep, Oh no!
I wouldn't treat a poor bird so!
I gave the 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.

I would not rob a bird,
Said little Mary Green;
I think I never heard
Of any thing so mean.
'Tis very cruel, too,
Said little Alice Neal;
I wonder if she 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.

_Hymns for Mother and Children._

* * * * *

WHO STOLE THE EGGS?

"Oh, what is the matter with Robin,
That makes her cry round here all day?
I think she must be in great trouble,"
Said Swallow to little Blue Jay.

"I know why the Robin is crying,"
Said Wren, with a sob in her breast;
"A naughty bold robber has stolen
Three little blue eggs from her nest.

"He carried them home in his pocket;
I saw him, from up in this tree:
Ah me! how my little heart fluttered
For fear he would come and rob me!"

"Oh! what little boy was so wicked?"
Said Swallow, beginning to cry;
"I wouldn't be guilty of robbing
A dear little bird's-nest--not I."

"Nor I!" said the birds in a chorus:
"A cruel and mischievous boy!
I pity his father and mother;
He surely can't give them much joy.

"I guess he forgot what a pleasure
The dear little robins all bring,
In early spring-time and in summer,
By the beautiful songs that they sing.

"I guess he forgot that the rule is,
To do as you'd be always done by;
I guess he forgot that from heaven
There looks down an All-seeing Eye."

MRS. C. F. BERRY.

* * * * *

WHAT THE BIRDS SAY.

When they chatter together,--the robins and sparrows,
Bluebirds and bobolinks,--all the day long;
What do they talk of? The sky and the sunshine,
The state of the weather, the last pretty song;

Of love and of friendship, and all the sweet trifles
That go to make bird-life so careless and free;
The number of grubs in the apple-tree yonder,
The promise of fruit in the big cherry-tree;

Of matches in prospect;--how Robin and Jenny
Are planning together to build them a nest;
How Bobolink left Mrs. Bobolink moping
At home, and went off on a lark with the rest.

Such mild little slanders! such innocent gossip!
Such gay little coquetries, pretty and bright!
Such happy love makings! such talks in the orchard!
Such chatterings at daybreak! such whisperings at night!

O birds in the tree-tops! O robins and sparrows!
O bluebirds and bobolinks! what would be May
Without your glad presence,--the songs that you sing us,
And all the sweet nothings we fancy you say?

CAROLINE A. MASON.

* * * * *

Sweet Mercy is Nobility's true badge.

_Titus Andronicus_, Act 1, Sc. 2.

* * * * *

THE WREN'S NEST.

I took the wren's nest:
Heaven forgive me!
Its merry architects so small
Had scarcely finished their wee hall
That, empty still, and neat and fair,
Hung idly in the summer air.
The mossy walls, the dainty door,
Where Love should enter and explore,
And Love sit carolling outside,
And Love within chirp multiplied;--
I took the wren's nest;
Heaven forgive me!

How many hours of happy pains
Through early frosts and April rains,
How many songs at eve and morn
O'er springing grass and greening corn,
What labors hard through sun and shade
Before the pretty house was made!
One little minute, only one,
And she'll fly back, and find it--gone!
I took the wren's nest:
Bird, forgive me!

Thou and thy mate, sans let, sans fear,
Ye have before you all the year,
And every wood holds nooks for you,
In which to sing and build and woo;
One piteous cry of birdish pain--
And ye'll begin your life again,
Forgetting quite the lost, lost home
In many a busy home to come.
But I? your wee house keep I must,
Until it crumble into dust.
I took the wren's nest:
God forgive me!

DINAH MARIA (MULOCK) CRAIK.

* * * * *

ON ANOTHER'S SORROW.

Can I see another's woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another's grief,
And not seek for kind relief?

Can I see a falling tear,
And not feel my sorrow's share?
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?

Can a mother sit and hear
An infant groan, an infant fear?
No, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

_And can He who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small bird's grief and care,_
Hear the woes that infants bear--

And not sit beside the nest,
Pouring pity in their breast,
And not sit in the cradle near,
Weeping tear on infant's tear?

And not sit both night and day,
Wiping all our tears away?
Oh no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

WILLIAM BLAKE.

* * * * *

THE SHEPHERD'S HOME.

My banks they are furnished with bees,
Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
My grottoes are shaded with trees,
And my hills are white over with sheep.
I seldom have met with a loss,
Such health do my fountains bestow;
My fountains all bordered with moss,
Where the harebells and violets blow.

Not a pine in the grove is there seen,
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound:
Not a beech's more beautiful green,
But a sweet-brier entwines it around.
Not my fields in the prime of the year,
More charms than my cattle unfold;
Not a brook that is limpid and clear,
But it glitters with fishes of gold.

I found out a gift for my fair,
I have found where the wood-pigeons breed;
But let me such plunder forbear,
She will say 'twas a barbarous deed;
For he ne'er could be true, she averred,
Who would rob a poor bird of its young;
And I loved her the more when I heard
Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

SHENSTONE (d. 1673).

* * * * *

THE WOOD-PIGEON'S HOME.

Come with me, if but in fancy,
To the wood, the green soft shade:
'Tis a haven, pure and lovely,
For the good of mankind made.

Listen! you can hear the cooing,
Soft and soothing, gentle sounds,
Of the pigeons, as they nestle
In the branches all around.

In the city and the open,
Man has built or tilled the land;
But the home of the wood pigeon
Bears the touch of God's own hand.

ANON.

* * * * *

THE SHAG.

"What is that great bird, sister, tell me,
Perched high on the top of the crag?"
"'Tis the cormorant, dear little brother;
The fishermen call it the shag."

"But what does it there, sister, tell me,
Sitting lonely against the black sky?"
"It has settled to rest, little brother;
It hears the wild gale wailing high."

"But I am afraid of it, sister,
For over the sea and the land
It gazes, so black and so silent!"
"Little brother, hold fast to my hand."

"Oh, what was that, sister? The thunder?
Did the shag bring the storm and the cloud,
The wind and the rain and the lightning?"
"Little brother, the thunder roars loud.

"Run fast, for the rain sweeps the ocean;
Look! over the lighthouse it streams;
And the lightning leaps red, and above us
The gulls fill the air with their screams."

O'er the beach, o'er the rocks, running swiftly,
The little white cottage they gain;
And safely they watch from the window
The dance and the rush of the rain.

But the shag kept his place on the headland,
And, when the brief storm had gone by,
He shook his loose plumes, and they saw him
Rise splendid and strong in the sky.

Clinging fast to the gown of his sister,
The little boy laughed as he flew:
"He is gone with the wind and lightning!
And--I am not frightened,--are you?"

CELIA THAXTER.

* * * * *

THE LOST BIRD.

My bird has flown away,
Far out of sight has flown, I know not where.
Look in your lawn, I pray,
Ye maidens kind and fair,
And see if my beloved bird be there.

His eyes are full of light;
The eagle of the rock has such an eye;
And plumes, exceeding bright,
Round his smooth temples lie,
And sweet his voice and tender as a sigh.

Look where the grass is gay
With summer blossoms, haply there he cowers;
And search, from spray to spray,
The leafy laurel bowers,
For well he loves the laurels and the flowers.

Find him, but do not dwell,
With eyes too fond, on the fair form you see,
Nor love his song too well;
Send him, at once, to me,
Or leave him to the air and liberty.

For only from my hand
He takes the seed into his golden beak,
And all unwiped shall stand
The tears that wet my cheek,
Till I have found the wanderer I seek.

My sight is darkened o'er,
Whene'er I miss his eyes, which are my day,
And when I hear no more
The music of his lay,
My heart in utter sadness faints away.

_From the Spanish of_ CAROLINA CORONADO DE PERRY.

_Translated by_ W. C. BRYANT.

* * * * *

THE BIRDS MUST KNOW.

The birds must know. Who wisely sings
Will sing as they;
The common air has generous wings,
Songs make their way.
No messenger to run before,
Devising plan;
No mention of the place or hour
To any man;
No waiting till some sound betrays
A listening ear;
No different voice, no new delays,
If steps draw near.
"What bird is that? Its song is good."
And eager eyes
Go peering through the dusky wood,
In glad surprise.
Then late at night, when by his fire
The traveller sits,
Watching the flame grow brighter, higher,
The sweet song flits
By snatches through his weary brain
To help him rest;
When next he goes that road again
An empty nest
On leafless bough will make him sigh,
"Ah me! last spring
Just here I heard, in passing by,
That rare bird sing!"

But while he sighs, remembering
How sweet the song,
The little bird on tireless wing,
Is borne along
In other air; and other men
With weary feet,
On other roads, the simple strain
Are finding sweet.
The birds must know. Who wisely sings
Will sing as they;
The common air has generous wings,
Songs make their way.

H. H.

* * * * *

THE BIRD KING.

Dost thou the monarch eagle seek?
Thou'lt find him in the tempest's maw,
Where thunders with tornadoes speak,
And forests fly as though of straw;
Or on some lightning-splintered peak,
Sceptred with desolation's law,
The shrubless mountain in his beak,
The barren desert in his claw.

ALGER'S _Oriental Poetry_.

* * * * *

SHADOWS OF BIRDS.

In darkened air, alone with pain,
I lay. Like links of heavy chain
The minutes sounded, measuring day,
And slipping lifelessly away.
Sudden across my silent room
A shadow darker than its gloom
Swept swift; a shadow slim and small,
Which poised and darted on the wall,
And vanished quickly as it came.
A shadow, yet it lit like flame;
A shadow, yet I heard it sing,
And heard the rustle of its wing,
Till every pulse with joy was stirred;
It was the shadow of a bird!

Only the shadow! Yet it made
Full summer everywhere it strayed;
And every bird I ever knew
Back and forth in the summer flew,
And breezes wafted over me
The scent of every flower and tree;
Till I forgot the pain and gloom
And silence of my darkened room.
Now, in the glorious open air
I watch the birds fly here and there;
And wonder, as each swift wing cleaves
The sky, if some poor soul that grieves
In lonely, darkened, silent walls,
Will catch the shadow as it falls!

H. H.

* * * * *

THE BIRD AND THE SHIP.

"The rivers rush into the sea,
By castle and town they go;
The winds behind them merrily
Their noisy trumpets blow.

"The clouds are passing far and high,
We little birds in them play;
And everything, that can sing and fly,
Goes with us, and far away.

"I greet thee, bonny boat! Whither or whence,
With thy fluttering golden band?"
"I greet thee, little bird! To the wide sea,
I haste from the narrow land.

"Full and swollen is every sail;
I see no longer a hill,
I have trusted all to the sounding gale,
And it will not let me stand still.

"And wilt thou, little bird, go with us?
Thou mayest stand on the mainmast tall,
For full to sinking is my house
With merry companions all."

"I need not and seek not company,
Bonny boat, I can sing all alone;
For the mainmast tall too heavy am I,
Bonny boat, I have wings of my own.

"High over the sails, high over the mast,
Who shall gainsay these joys?
When thy merry companions are still, at last,
Thou shalt hear the sound of my voice.

"Who neither may rest, nor listen may,
God bless them every one!
I dart away, in the bright blue day,
And the golden fields of the sun.

"Thus do I sing my weary song,
Wherever the four winds blow;
And this same song, my whole life long,
Neither Poet nor Printer may know."

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

A MYTH.

Afloating, afloating
Across the sleeping sea,
All night I heard a singing bird
Upon the topmast tree.

"Oh, came you from the isles of Greece,
Or from the banks of Seine?
Or off some tree in forests free
That fringe the western main?"

"I came not off the old world,
Nor yet from off the new;
But I am one of the birds of God
Which sing the whole night through."

"Oh, sing and wake the dawning!
Oh, whistle for the wind!
The night is long, the current strong,
My boat it lags behind."

"The current sweeps the old world,
The current sweeps the new;
The wind will blow, the dawn will glow,
Ere thou hast sailed them through."