By C. B.
Once, upon a winter day,
As I sat, forlorn and sad,
Thinking, in a fretful way,
Of the time when I was glad—
Hopping lightly o’er the snow,
Came a robin that I know.
On the window ledge he stood,
With a bright inquiring eye;
’Twas a compact that he should
Always call in passing by,
Just to show we might pretend
Each to entertain a friend.
When I saw my tiny guest
Waiting for his daily crumb,
Dainty, trim, and self-possessed,
Never doubting it would come,
I could almost hear him say,
“Mistress, food is scarce to-day.”
And my heart made sad reply,
As the little dole I threw,
“Strange that one so poor as I
Should have store enough for two!
Robin, if the thing could be,
Would you throw a crumb to me?”
Not a sound disturbed the hush,
Save my own impatient sigh—
Robin to a neighboring bush
Darted off without good bye.
How! you leave me, faithless bird,
As I waited for a word.
Ah! I wronged that heart of flame:
Through the silence, sweet and clear,
Forth his cheery carol came,
And I held my breath to hear,
For that dear familiar strain
Woke my better self again.
Suddenly the music ceased,
Yet the silence breathed of balm;
Art thou flown, then, small hedge priest,
Somewhere else to raise the psalm?
“Man,” the Master finely said,
“Doth not live alone by bread.”
[_Not Required._]