Chapter 4

How pleasant the life of a bird must be, Skimming about on the breezy sea, Cresting the billows like silvery foam, Then wheeling away to its cliff-built home! What joy it must be to sail, upborne, By a strong free wing, through the rosy morn, To meet the young sun, face to face, And pierce, like a shaft, the boundless space!

To pass through the bowers of the silver cloud; To sing in the thunder halls aloud: To spread out the wings for a wild, free flight With the upper cloud-winds,--oh, what delight! Oh, what would I give, like a bird, to go, Right on through the arch of the sun-lit bow, And see how the water-drops are kissed Into green and yellow and amethyst.

How pleasant the life of a bird must be, Wherever it listeth, there to flee; To go, when a joyful fancy calls, Dashing down 'mong the waterfalls; Then wheeling about, with its mate at play, Above and below, and among the spray, Hither and thither, with screams as wild As the laughing mirth of a rosy child.

What joy it must be, like a living breeze, To flutter about 'mid the flowering trees; Lightly to soar and to see beneath, The wastes of the blossoming purple heath, And the yellow furze, like fields of gold, That gladden some fairy region old! On mountain-tops, on the billowy sea, On the leafy stems of the forest-tree, How pleasant the life of a bird must be!

Mary Howitt.

_An Epitaph on a Robin Redbreast_

Tread lightly here; for here, 'tis said, When piping winds are hush'd around, A small note wakes from underground, Where now his tiny bones are laid.

No more in lone or leafless groves, With ruffled wing and faded breast, His friendless, homeless spirit roves; Gone to the world where birds are blest!

Where never cat glides o'er the green, Or school-boy's giant form is seen; But love, and joy, and smiling Spring Inspire their little souls to sing!

Samuel Rogers.

_The Bluebird_

I know the song that the bluebird is singing, Out in the apple-tree where he is swinging. Brave little fellow! the skies may be dreary, Nothing cares he while his heart is so cheery.

Hark! how the music leaps out from his throat! Hark! was there ever so merry a note? Listen awhile, and you'll hear what he's saying, Up in the apple-tree, swinging and swaying:

"Dear little blossoms, down under the snow, You must be weary of winter, I know; Hark! while I sing you a message of cheer, Summer is coming and spring-time is here!

"Little white snowdrop, I pray you arise; Bright yellow crocus, come, open your eyes; Sweet little violets hid from the cold, Put on your mantles of purple and gold; Daffodils, daffodils! say, do you hear? Summer is coming, and spring-time is here!"

Mrs. Emily Huntington Miller.

_Song_

I had a dove and the sweet dove died; And I have thought it died of grieving: O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving; Sweet little red feet! why should you die-- Why should you leave me, sweet bird! why? You lived alone in the forest-tree, Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me? I kiss'd you oft and gave you white peas; Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?

John Keats.

_What Does Little Birdie Say?_

What does little birdie say, In her nest at peep of day? "Let me fly," says little birdie, "Mother, let me fly away."

Birdie, rest a little longer, Till the little wings are stronger So she rests a little longer, Then she flies away.

What does little baby say, In her bed at peep of day? Baby says, like little birdie, "Let me rise and fly away."

Baby, sleep a little longer, Till the little limbs are stronger. If she sleeps a little longer, Baby, too, shall fly away.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

_The Owl_

When cats run home and light is come, And dew is cold upon the ground, And the far-off stream is dumb, And the whirring sail goes round; And the whirring sail goes round; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits.

When merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the new-mown hay, And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay, Twice or thrice his roundelay; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

_Wild Geese_

The wild wind blows, the sun shines, the birds sing loud, The blue, blue sky is flecked with fleecy dappled cloud, Over earth's rejoicing fields the children dance and sing, And the frogs pipe in chorus, "It is spring! It is spring!"

The grass comes, the flower laughs where lately lay the snow, O'er the breezy hill-top hoarsely calls the crow, By the flowing river the alder catkins swing, And the sweet song-sparrow cries, "Spring! It is spring!"

Hark, what a clamor goes winging through the sky! Look, children! Listen to the sound so wild and high! Like a peal of broken bells,--kling, klang, kling,-- Far and high the wild geese cry, "Spring! It is spring!"

Bear the winter off with you, O wild geese dear! Carry all the cold away, far away from here; Chase the snow into the north, O strong of heart and wing, While we share the robin's rapture, crying "Spring! It is spring!"

Celia Thaxter.

_Chanticleer_

I wake! I feel the day is near; I hear the red cock crowing! He cries "'Tis dawn!" How sweet and clear His cheerful call comes to my ear, While light is slowly growing.

The white snow gathers flake on flake; I hear the red cock crowing! Is anybody else awake To see the winter morning break, While thick and fast 'tis snowing?

I think the world is all asleep; I hear the red cock crowing! Out of the frosty pane I peep; The drifts are piled so wide and deep, And wild the wind is blowing!

Nothing I see has shape or form; I hear the red cock crowing! But that dear voice comes through the storm To greet me in my nest so warm, As if the sky were glowing!

A happy little child, I lie And hear the red cock crowing. The day is dark. I wonder why His voice rings out so brave and high, With gladness overflowing.

Celia Thaxter.

_The Singer_

O Lark! sweet lark! Where learn you all your minstrelsy? What realms are those to which you fly? While robins feed their young from dawn till dark, You soar on high-- Forever in the sky.

O child! dear child! Above the clouds I lift my wing To hear the bells of Heaven ring; Some of their music, though my flights be wild, To Earth I bring; Then let me soar and sing!

Edmund Clarence Stedman.

_The Blue Jay_

O Blue Jay up in the maple-tree, Shaking your throat with such bursts of glee, How did you happen to be so blue? Did you steal a bit of the lake for your crest, And fasten blue violets into your vest? Tell me, I pray you,--tell me true!

Did you dip your wings in azure dye, When April began to paint the sky, That was pale with the winter's stay? Or were you hatched from a bluebell bright, 'Neath the warm, gold breast of a sunbeam light, By the river one blue spring day?

O Blue Jay up in the maple-tree, A-tossing your saucy head at me, With ne'er a word for my questioning, Pray, cease for a moment your "ting-a-link," And hear when I tell you what I think,-- You bonniest bit of the spring.

I think when the fairies made the flowers, To grow in these mossy fields of ours, Periwinkles and violets rare, There was left of the spring's own color, blue, Plenty to fashion a flower whose hue Would be richer than all and as fair.

So, putting their wits together, they Made one great blossom so bright and gay, The lily beside it seemed blurred; And then they said, "We will toss it in air; So many blue blossoms grow everywhere, Let this pretty one be a bird!"

Susan Hartley Swett.

_Robert of Lincoln_[A]

Merrily swinging on brier and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, Snug and safe is this nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers, Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest, Wearing a bright, black wedding-coat; White are his shoulders and white his crest, Hear him call, in his merry note, Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, Look what a nice new coat is mine, Sure there was never a bird so fine! Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, Brood, kind creature; you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here, Chee, chee, chee.

Modest and shy as a nun is she; One weak chirp is her only note. Braggart, and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, Never was I afraid of man; Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can, Chee, chee, chee.

Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight: There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might, Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, Nice good wife, that never goes out, Keeping house while I frolic about, Chee, chee, chee.

Soon as the little ones chip the shell, Six wide mouths are open for food; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seeds for the hungry brood. Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me, Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work, and silent with care; Off is his holiday garment laid, Half forgotten that merry air: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, Nobody knows but my mate and I Where our nest and our nestlings lie, Chee, chee, chee.

Summer wanes; the children are grown; Fun and frolic no more he knows, Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again, Chee, chee, chee.

William Cullen Bryant.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] _Courtesy of D. Appleton & Co., Publishers of Bryant's Complete Poetical Works._

_White Butterflies_

Fly, white butterflies, out to sea, Frail, pale wings for the wind to try, Small white wings that we scarce can see, Fly!

Some fly light as a laugh of glee, Some fly soft as a long, low sigh; All to the haven where each would be, Fly!

Algernon Charles Swinburne.

_The Ant and the Cricket_

A silly young cricket, accustomed to sing Through the warm, sunny months of gay summer and spring, Began to complain, when he found that at home His cupboard was empty and winter was come. Not a crumb to be found On the snow-covered ground; Not a flower could he see, Not a leaf on a tree: "Oh, what will become," says the cricket, "of me?"

At last by starvation and famine made bold, All dripping with wet and all trembling with cold, Away he set off to a miserly ant, To see if, to keep him alive, he would grant Him shelter from rain: A mouthful of grain He wished only to borrow, He'd repay it to-morrow: If not, he must die of starvation and sorrow.

Says the ant to the cricket, "I'm your servant and friend, But we ants never borrow, we ants never lend; But tell me, dear sir, did you lay nothing by When the weather was warm?" Said the cricket, "Not I. My heart was so light That I sang day and night, For all nature looked gay." "You _sang_, sir, you say? Go then," said the ant, "and _dance_ winter away." Thus ending, he hastily lifted the wicket And out of the door turned the poor little cricket. Though this is a fable, the moral is good: If you live without work, you must live without food.

Unknown.

IV

THE FLOWER FOLK

_Hope is like a harebell, trembling from its birth, Love is like a rose, the joy of all the earth; Faith is like a lily, lifted high and white, Love is like a lovely rose, the world's delight; Harebells and sweet lilies show a thornless growth, But the rose with all its thorns excels them both._

_Christina G. Rossetti._

THE FLOWER FOLK

_Little White Lily_

Little white Lily Sat by a stone, Drooping and waiting Till the sun shone. Little white Lily Sunshine has fed; Little white Lily Is lifting her head.

Little white Lily Said, "It is good-- Little white Lily's Clothing and food." Little white Lily Drest like a bride! Shining with whiteness, And crowned beside!

Little white Lily Droopeth with pain, Waiting and waiting For the wet rain. Little white Lily Holdeth her cup; Rain is fast falling And filling it up.

Little white Lily Said, "Good again-- When I am thirsty To have fresh rain! Now I am stronger; Now I am cool; Heat cannot burn me, My veins are so full."

Little white Lily Smells very sweet: On her head sunshine, Rain at her feet. "Thanks to the sunshine, Thanks to the rain! Little white Lily Is happy again!"

George Macdonald.

_Violets_

Violets, violets, sweet March violets, Sure as March comes, they'll come too, First the white and then the blue-- Pretty violets!

White, with just a pinky dye, Blue as little baby's eye,-- So like violets.

Though the rough wind shakes the house, Knocks about the budding boughs, There are violets.

Though the passing snow-storms come, And the frozen birds sit dumb, Up spring violets.

One by one among the grass, Saying "Pluck me!" as we pass,-- Scented violets.

By and by there'll be so many, We'll pluck dozens nor miss any: Sweet, sweet violets!

Children, when you go to play, Look beneath the hedge to-day:-- Mamma likes violets.

Dinah Maria Mulock.

_Young Dandelion_

Young Dandelion On a hedge-side, Said young Dandelion, "Who'll be my bride?

"I'm a bold fellow As ever was seen, With my shield of yellow, In the grass green.

"You may uproot me From field and from lane, Trample me, cut me,-- I spring up again.

"I never flinch, Sir, Wherever I dwell; Give me an inch, Sir, I'll soon take an ell.

"Drive me from garden In anger and pride, I'll thrive and harden By the road-side.

"Not a bit fearful, Showing my face, Always so cheerful In every place."

Said young Dandelion, With a sweet air, "I have my eye on Miss Daisy fair.

"Though we may tarry Till past the cold, Her I will marry Ere I grow old.

"I will protect her From all kinds of harm, Feed her with nectar, Shelter her warm.

"Whate'er the weather, Let it go by; We'll hold together, Daisy and I.

"I'll ne'er give in,--no! Nothing I fear: All that I win, oh! I'll keep for my dear."

Said young Dandelion On his hedge-side, "Who'll me rely on? Who'll be my bride?"

Dinah Maria Mulock.

_Baby Seed Song_

Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother, Are you awake in the dark? Here we lie cosily, close to each other: Hark to the song of the lark-- "Waken!" the lark says, "waken and dress you; Put on your green coats and gay, Blue sky will shine on you, sunshine caress you-- Waken! 'tis morning--'tis May!"

Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother, What kind of flower will you be? I'll be a poppy--all white, like my mother; Do be a poppy like me. What! you're a sun-flower? How I shall miss you When you're grown golden and high! But I shall send all the bees up to kiss you; Little brown brother, good-bye.

E. Nesbit.

_A Violet Bank_

I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows: Quite over-canopied with lush woodbine, With sweet musk roses and with eglantine.

William Shakespeare.

_There's Nothing Like the Rose_

The lily has an air, And the snowdrop a grace, And the sweet-pea a way, And the hearts-ease a face,-- Yet there's nothing like the rose When she blows.

Christina G. Rossetti.

_Snowdrops_

Little ladies, white and green, With your spears about you, Will you tell us where you've been Since we lived without you?

You are sweet, and fresh, and clean, With your pearly faces; In the dark earth where you've been, There are wondrous places:

Yet you come again, serene, When the leaves are hidden; Bringing joy from where you've been, You return unbidden--

Little ladies, white and green, Are you glad to cheer us? Hunger not for where you've been, Stay till Spring be near us!

Laurence Alma Tadema.

_Fern Song_

Dance to the beat of the rain, little Fern, And spread out your palms again, And say, "Tho' the sun Hath my vesture spun, He had laboured, alas, in vain, But for the shade That the Cloud hath made, And the gift of the Dew and the Rain," Then laugh and upturn All your fronds, little Fern, And rejoice in the beat of the rain!

John B. Tabb.

_The Violet_

Down in a green and shady bed A modest violet grew; Its stalk was bent, it hung its head, As if to hide from view.

And yet it was a lovely flower, Its color bright and fair; It might have graced a rosy bower Instead of hiding there.

Yet there it was content to bloom, In modest tints arrayed; And there diffused its sweet Perfume Within the silent shade.

Then let me to the valley go, This pretty flower to see, That I may also learn to grow In sweet humility.

Jane Taylor.

_Daffy-Down-Dilly_

Daffy-down-dilly Came up in the cold, Through the brown mould, Although the March breezes Blew keen on her face, Although the white snow Lay on many a place.

Daffy-down-dilly Had heard under ground, The sweet rushing sound Of the streams, as they broke From their white winter chains, Of the whistling spring winds And the pattering rains.

"Now then," thought Daffy, Deep down in her heart, "It's time I should start." So she pushed her soft leaves Through the hard frozen ground, Quite up to the surface, And then she looked round.

There was snow all about her, Gray clouds overhead; The trees all looked dead: Then how do you think Poor Daffy-down felt, When the sun would not shine, And the ice would not melt?

"Cold weather!" thought Daffy, Still working away; "The earth's hard to-day! There's but a half inch Of my leaves to be seen, And two thirds of that Is more yellow than green.

"I can't do much yet; But I'll do what I can: It's well I began! For, unless I can manage To lift up my head, The people will think That the Spring herself's dead."

So, little by little, She brought her leaves out, All clustered about; And then her bright flowers Began to unfold, Till Daffy stood robed In her spring green and gold.

O Daffy-down-dilly, So brave and so true! I wish all were like you!-- So ready for duty In all sorts of weather, And loyal to courage And duty together.

Anna B. Warner.

_Baby Corn_

A happy mother stalk of corn Held close a baby ear, And whispered: "Cuddle up to me, I'll keep you warm, my dear. I'll give you petticoats of green, With many a tuck and fold To let out daily as you grow; For you will soon be old."

A funny little baby that, For though it had no eye, It had a hundred mouths; 'twas well It did not want to cry. The mother put in each small mouth A hollow thread of silk, Through which the sun and rain and air Provided baby's milk.

The petticoats were gathered close Where all the threadlets hung. And still as summer days went on To mother-stalk it clung; And all the time it grew and grew-- Each kernel drank the milk By day, by night, in shade, in sun, From its own thread of silk.

And each grew strong and full and round, And each was shining white; The gores and seams were all let out, The green skirts fitted tight. The ear stood straight and large and tall, And when it saw the sun, Held up its emerald satin gown To say: "Your work is done."

"You're large enough," said Mother Stalk, "And now there's no more room For you to grow." She tied the threads Into a soft brown plume-- It floated out upon the breeze To greet the dewy morn, And then the baby said: "Now I'm A full-grown ear of corn!"

Unknown.

_A Child's Fancy_