Chapter LXI

They plucked the blossoms from the blushing bush,
They quaffed the waters from the purling rill,
Their bread they scattered to the gentle thrush,
That seemed half-conscious of the coming ill;
The rabbit eyed them from his covert brush,
Their crumbs supplied the little sparrow’s bill;
And sadly then they sighed their last adieu,
“Our little friends, farewell! we sport no more with you.”