“Good-morning, pretty hen!
How many chickens have you got?”
“Madam, I’ve got ten:
Three of them are yellow,
And three of them are brown,
And four of them are black and white,
The nicest in the town.”
THE CHICKENS
See, the chickens round the gate
For their morning portion wait;
Fill the basket from the store,
Let us open wide the door:
Throw out crumbs, and scatter seed,
Let the hungry chickens feed.
Call them; now how fast they run,
Gladly, quickly, every one;
Eager, busy hen and chick
Every little morsel pick:
See the hen with callow brood,
To her young how kind and good;
With what care their steps she leads--
Them, and not herself, she feeds:
Picking here and picking there,
Where the nicest morsels are.
As she calls, they flock around,
Bustling all along the ground.
When their daily labors cease,
And at night they rest in peace,
All the little tiny things
Nestle close beneath her wings;
There she keeps them safe and warm,
Free from fear, and free from harm.
Now, my little child, attend:
Your almighty Father, Friend,
Though unseen by mortal eye,
Watches o’er you from on high:
As the hen her chickens leads,
Shelters, cherishes, and feeds,
So by him your feet are led,
Over you his wings are spread.
[Illustration: Hen with chicks]
POOR ROBIN
One winter’s day the wind blew high,
And fast came down the snow;
A robin, far too weak to fly,
Hopped in the yard below.
Jane threw him crumbs, and from that day
Her welcome guest he’s been;
And often when the children play,
Sweet little Bob is seen.
THE ROBIN REDBREASTS
Two robin redbreasts built their nests
Within a hollow tree;
The mother-bird sat still at home,
Her mate sang merrily;
And all the little young ones said:
“Wee, wee, wee, wee, wee, wee.”
One day the sun was warm and bright
And shining in the sky,
Cock-robin said, “My little dears,
’Tis time you learned to fly.”
And all the little young ones said:
“I’ll try, I’ll try, I’ll try.”
ROBIN REDBREAST’S SECRET
I’m little Robin Redbreast, sir,
My nest is in the tree;
If you look up in yonder elm,
My pleasant home you’ll see.
We made it very soft and nice--
My pretty mate and I--
And all the time we worked at it
We sang most merrily.
The green leaves shade our lovely home
From heat of noonday sun;
So many birds live in the tree,
We do not want for fun.
The light breeze gently rocks our nest,
And hushes us to sleep;
We’re up betimes to sing our song,
And daylight first to greet.
I have a secret I would like
The little girls to know;
But I won’t tell a single boy--
They rob the poor birds so.
We have four pretty little nests,
We watch them with great care;
Full fifty eggs are in this tree--
Don’t tell the boys they’re here.
Joe Thomson robbed the nest last year,
And year before, Tom Brown;
I’ll tell it loud as I can sing
To every one in town.
Swallow and sparrow, lark and thrush,
Will tell you just the same:
To make us all so sorrowful
It is a wicked shame.
Oh, did you hear the concert
This morning from our tree?
We give it every morning
Just as the clock strikes three.
We praise our great Creator,
Whose holy love we share:
Dear children, learn to praise him too
For all his tender care.
A TEMPERANCE SONG
I asked a sweet robin, one morning in May,
Who sang in the apple-tree over the way,
What ’twas she was singing so sweetly about,
For I’d tried a long time, but could not find out.
“Why, I’m sure,” she replied, “you cannot guess wrong;
Don’t you know I am singing a temperance song?
“Teetotal--oh, that’s the first word of my lay;
And then don’t you see how I twitter away?
’Tis because I’ve just fluttered my beak in the spring,
And brushed the fair face of the lake with my wing.
Cold water, cold water, yes, that is my song,
And I love to keep singing it all the day long.
“And now, my sweet Miss, won’t you give me a crumb;
For the dear little nestlings are waiting at home?
And one thing besides; since my story you’ve heard,
I hope you’ll remember the lay of the bird;
And never forget, while you list to my song,
All the birds to the cold-water army belong.”
THE CAPTIVE BLUEBIRD
Sweet little mistress, let me go,
And I’ll sing you a song so sweet and low,
I’ll sing a song so gay and clear,
That you will be glad to stop and hear.
Indeed you know not what to do;
I’ll tell you all, and tell you true:
I’ve left some young ones in the tree,
In a soft nest; they are one, two, three.
’Tis two hours now since Dick was fed,
And little Billy hangs his head,
Sweet Katy wonders where I’m gone,
And the poor things are all alone.
Ah me! no more at early morn
Shall I rest my foot on the stooping thorn,
And pour the song from my soft breast,
While my dear young ones are at rest.
But yes! my plaint has touched your heart,
Your open hand bids me depart;
Blessings on thee, my mistress dear,
My darlings have no more to fear.
CRUEL SPORT
There came to my window,
One morning in spring,
A sweet little robin,
She came there to sing;
And the tune that she sang
Was prettier far
Than ever I heard
On the flute or guitar.
She raised her light wings
To soar far away,
Then resting a moment,
Seemed sweetly to say,
“Oh, happy, how happy
This world seems to be;
Awake, little girl,
And be happy with me.”
But just as she finished
Her beautiful song,
A thoughtless young man
With a gun came along.
He killed and he carried
My sweet bird away,
And she no more will sing
At the dawn of the day.
THE BIRD’S NEST
A little bird built a warm nest in a tree,
And laid some blue eggs in it, one, two, three;
And then very glad and delighted was she.
And after a while, but how long I can’t tell,
The little ones crept, one by one, from the shell,
And their mother was pleased, for she loved them all well.
She spread her soft wings o’er them all the day long
To warm them and guard them, her love was so strong;
Her mate sat beside her and sang her a song.
One day the wee birds were all crying for food,
So off flew their mother away from her brood;
And up came some boys who were wicked and rude.
They pulled the warm nest down away from the tree;
The little ones cried, but they could not get free;
But they died all alone, little one, two, three.
When back to the nest the poor mother did fly,
Oh, then she set up a most piteous cry;
With her mother-heart broken, she lay down to die.
THE BOY AND THE LARK
Who taught you to sing,
My sweet pretty birds?
Who tuned your beautiful throats?
You make all the woods
And the valleys to ring,
You bring the first news
Of the earliest spring,
With your loud and silvery notes.
It was God, said a lark,
As he rose from the earth;
_He_ gives us the good we enjoy:
He painted our wings,
He gave us our voice,
He finds us our food,
He bids us rejoice--
Good-morning, my beautiful boy!
—_Mrs. Sigourney._
DON’T KILL THE BIRDS
Don’t kill the birds, the little birds
That sing about your door,
Soon as the joyous spring has come
And chilling storms are o’er.
The little birds so sweetly sing,
Oh, let them joyous live,
And do not seek to take their life,
Which you can never give.
Don’t kill the birds, the pretty birds
That play among the trees;
’Twould make the earth a cheerless place
To see no more of these.
The little birds so fondly play,
Do not disturb their sport;
But let them warble forth their songs
Till winter cuts them short.
Don’t kill the birds, the happy birds
That cheer the field and grove;
Such harmless things to look upon,
They claim our warmest love.
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._
[Illustration: Head of woman]
THE SNOW-BIRD’S SONG
The ground was all covered with snow one day,
And two little sisters were busy at play,
When a snow-bird was sitting close by on a tree,
And merrily singing his chick-a-de-dee,
Chick-a-de-dee, chick-a-de-dee,
And merrily singing his chick-a-de-dee.
He had not been singing that tune very long
Ere Emily heard him, so loud was his song.
“Oh, sister, look out of the window,” said she;
“Here’s a dear little bird singing chick-a-de-dee,
Chick-a-de-dee, etc.
“Oh, mother, do get him some stockings and shoes,
And a nice little frock, and a hat, if you choose;
I wish he’d come into the parlor and see
How warm we would make him, poor chick-a-de-dee.”
Chick-a-de-dee, etc.
“There is One, dear child, though I cannot tell who,
Has clothed me already, and warm enough too.
Good-morning! Oh, who are so happy as we?”
And away he went singing his chick-a-de-dee.
Chick-a-de-dee, etc.
—_F. C. Woodworth._
[Illustration: “CHICK-A-DE-DEE”]
THE SPARROW IN THE SNOW
He hopped down cheerily into the snow--
Brave little barefoot Brownie--
As if snow were the warmest thing below,
And as cosey as it is downy!
And his brown little knowing, saucy head,
In a way that was cutely funny,
He jerked to one side, as though he said,
“I don’t care if it isn’t sunny.”
“I don’t care! I don’t care! I don’t!” he said,
And he winked with his eye so cheery,
“For somebody’s left some crumbs of bread,
So my prospects are not all dreary.
“And what’s a cold toe, when I’ve a whole suit
Of the cunningest warm brown feathers?
I don’t care if I haven’t a shoe to my foot,
I’m the bird, sir, for all sorts of weathers.
“I don’t fly away at the first touch of frost,
Like some of your fine-tongued birdies;
I don’t think everything’s ruined and lost
When the wind mutters threatening wordies.
“I don’t care!” he chirped; “I don’t care! I don’t care!
It might be a great deal colder:
But I’m a fellow that knows no fear--
Old winter but makes me bolder!”
Ah, plain little hardy brown-coat bird!
Through life I’ll try to remember
To meet its winters with cheerful word,
Like thee, to my brave December.
—_Youth’s Companion._
[Illustration: Sparrows in the snow]
THE WANDERINGS OF THE BIRDS
Autumn has come, so bare and gray,
The woods are brown and red,
The flowers all have passed away,
The forest leaves are dead.
The little birds at morning dawn,
Clothed in warm coats of feather,
Conclude that they away will roam,
To seek for milder weather.
The robin gives his last sweet strain,
His mate, responding, follows;
And then away they lead the train
Of bluebirds, wrens, and swallows.
The cuckoo, thrush, and yellow-bird,
The wild goose, teal, and sparrow,
Martin and chippee, all are heard
To sing their parting carol.
The oriole hastens in his flight,
The swallow skims the water;
The whip-poor-will and bobby white
Join in the blackbirds’ chatter.
Tribe after tribe with leaders fair
All spread their wings for flight,
Away, away, high in the air,
Nor care for day nor night.
The fig-tree and the orange bowers
They soon will find so sweet;
The sunny clime of fruits and flowers
They with warm hearts will greet.
But when the voice of spring they hear,
They’ll sing their “chick-a-dee,”
And back they’ll come, our hearts to cheer,
“Tu-whit, tu-whit, tu-whee.”
THE TURTLE-DOVES
Very high in the pine-tree,
The little turtle-dove
Made a pretty little nursery
To please her little love.
She was gentle, she was soft,
And her large, dark eye
Often turned to her mate,
Who was sitting close by.
“Coo,” said the turtle-dove;
“Coo,” said she.
“Oh, I love thee,” said the turtle-dove,
“And I love thee!”
In the long, shady branches
Of the dark pine-tree,
How happy were the doves
In their little nursery.
The young turtle-doves
Never quarreled in the nest,
For they dearly loved each other,
Though they loved their mother best.
“Coo,” said the little doves,
“Coo,” said she.
And they played together kindly
In the dark pine-tree.
Is this nursery of yours,
Little sister, little brother,
Like the turtle-doves’ nest?
Do you love one another?
[Illustration: Turtle Dove]
THE LITTLE DOVES[2]
Rev. John Henry Hopkins
[Music:
1. High on the top of an old pine tree
Broods a mother dove with her young ones three;
Warm over them is her soft downy breast,
And they sing so sweetly in their nest;
“Coo,” say the little ones, “Coo,” says she,
All in their nest in the old pine tree.
2. When in the nest they are left alone,
While their mother, seeking food has gone;
Quiet and tender they all remain,
Till their mother they see come back again;
“Coo,” say the little ones, “Coo,” says she,
All in their nest in the old pine tree.
3. Fast grow the young ones, day and night,
Till their wings are plumed for a longer flight,
Till unto them the day draws nigh,
The time when they all must say good-by;
“Coo,” say the little ones, “Coo,” says she,
And away they fly from the old pine tree.
]
[2] From _CHILDREN’S SONGS AND HOW TO SING THEM_, by W. L. Tomlins
Copyright, 1884, by Oliver Ditson Company
THE PEACOCK
Come, come, Mister Peacock, you must not be proud,
Although you can boast such a train;
For many a bird far more highly endowed
Is not half so conceited and vain.
Let me tell you, gay bird, that a suit of fine clothes
Is a sorry distinction at most,
And seldom much valued, excepting by those
Who only such graces can boast.
The nightingale certainly wears a plain coat,
But she cheers and delights with her song;
While you, though so vain, cannot utter a note
Though you scream all the summer day long.
The hawk cannot boast of a plumage so gay,
But piercing and clear is her eye;
And while you are strutting about all the day,
She gallantly soars in the sky.
The dove may be clad in a plainer attire,
But she is not so selfish and cold;
And her love and affection more pleasure inspire
Than all your fine purple and gold.
So you see, Mister Peacock, you must not be proud,
Although you can boast such a train;
For many a bird is more highly endowed,
And not half so conceited and vain.
BUSY BEE
How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flower.
How skilfully she builds her cell,
How neat she spreads the wax,
And labors hard to store it well
With the sweet food she makes.
In works of labor or of skill
I would be busy, too;
For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.
THE BEES
“Oh, mother dear, pray tell me where
The bees in winter stay?
The flowers are gone they feed upon
So sweet in summer’s day.”
“My child, they live within the hive,
And have enough to eat;
Amid the storm they’re clean and warm,
Their food is honey sweet.”
“Say, mother dear, how came it there?
Did father feed them so?
I see no way in winter’s day
That honey has to grow.”
“No, no, my child; in summer mild
The bees laid up their store
Of honey-drops in little cups,
Till they should want no more.”
THE FLY
’Twas God who made the little fly;
But if you pinch it, it will die.
THE SPIDER AND THE FLY
“Will you walk into my parlor?”
Said a spider to a fly;
“’Tis the prettiest little parlor
That ever you did spy.
The way into my parlor
Is up a winding stair,
And I have many pretty things
To show when you are there.”
“Oh, no, no,” said the little fly,
“To ask me is in vain;
For who goes up your winding stair,
Can ne’er come down again.”
“I’m sure you must be weary
With soaring up so high;
Will you rest upon my little bed?”
Said the spider to the fly.
“There are pretty curtains drawn around,
The sheets are fine and thin;
And if you like to rest a while,
I’ll snugly tuck you in.”
“Oh, no, no,” said the little fly,
“For I’ve often heard it said,
They never, never wake again
Who sleep upon your bed.”
Said the cunning spider to the fly,
“Dear friend, what shall I do
To prove the warm affection
I’ve always felt for you?
I have, within my pantry,
Good store of all that’s nice;
I’m sure you’re very welcome--
Will you please to take a slice?”
“Oh, no, no,” said the little fly,
“Kind sir, that cannot be;
I’ve heard what’s in your pantry,
And I do not wish to see.”
“Sweet creature,” said the spider,
“You’re witty and you’re wise;
How handsome are your gauzy wings,
How brilliant are your eyes!
I have a little looking-glass
Upon my parlor shelf;
If you’ll step in one moment, dear,
You shall behold yourself.”
“I thank you, gentle sir,” she said,
“For what you’re pleased to say,
And bidding you good-morning now,
I’ll call another day.”
The spider turned him round about
And went into his den,
For well he knew the silly fly
Would soon be back again;
So he wove a subtle web
In a little corner sly,
And set his table ready
To dine upon the fly.
He went out to his door again,
And merrily did sing,
“Come hither, hither, pretty fly,
With pearl and silver wing;
Your robes are green and purple,
There’s a crest upon your head;
Your eyes are like the diamond bright,
But mine are dull as lead.”
Alas, alas! how very soon
This silly little fly,
Hearing his wily, flattering words,
Came slowly flitting by.
With buzzing wings she hung aloft,
Then near and nearer drew--
Thought only of her brilliant eyes
And green and purple hue;
Thought only of her crested head--
Poor foolish thing! At last
Up jumped the cunning spider
And fiercely held her fast.
He dragged her up his winding stair,
Into his dismal den
Within his little parlor--but
She ne’er came out again!
And now, dear little children
Who may this story read,
To idle, silly, flattering words,
I pray you, ne’er give heed:
Unto an evil counselor
Close heart and ear and eye,
And take a lesson from this tale
Of the spider and the fly.
PRETTY BEE
“Pretty bee, pray tell me why
Thus from flower to flower you fly,
Culling sweets the livelong day,
Never leaving off to play.”
“Little child, I’ll tell thee why
Thus from flower to flower I fly:
Let the truth thy thoughts engage
From thy youth to riper age.
“Summer flowers will soon be o’er;
Winter comes, they bloom no more:
Fairest days will soon be past;
Brightest suns will set at last.
“Little child, now learn of me:
Let thy youth thy seed-time be;
Then, when wintry age has come,
Richly bear thy harvest home.”
THE MERRY FLY
My merry little fly, play here,
And let me look at you;
I will not touch you, though you’re near,
As naughty children do.
I see you spread your pretty wings,
That sparkle in the sun:
I see your legs--what tiny things;
And yet how fast they run!
You walk along the ceiling now,
And down the upright wall:
I’ll ask mamma to tell me how
You walk and do not fall.
’Twas God who taught you, little fly,
To walk along the ground,
And mount above my head so high,
And frolic round and round.
I’ll near you stand, to see you play;
But do not be afraid:
I would not lift my little hand
To hurt what God has made.
THE BUTTERFLY
Where hides the downy butterfly
That in the sunshine flew so high,
Or sucked the flowers?
When night has fallen on all around,
Has he a place of shelter found
For darkling hours?
Upon a bank that faces west,
His velvet couch a daisy’s breast,
He is at home;
There sleeps until the sun with power
Unfolds him like a living flower,
No more to roam.
MY TAME SQUIRREL
I have a little squirry,
His step is quick and light,
His tail is long and furry,
And his eyes are large and bright.
He burrows ’neath my pillow,
And curls himself to sleep;
Or in my basket willow
He slyly loves to creep.
It’s of no use to scold him,
He always has his way,
Though oft and oft I’ve told him
To be quiet in his play.
But bolder still and bolder
He grows with every week;
He springs upon my shoulder,
And frisks across my cheek.
He builds his nest aloft there
Behind a barricade;
And none can tell how soft there
The little crib he’s made--
What piles of snowy cotton,
What balls of worsted bright,
What skeins of silk forgotten,
Or left within his sight.
And none can tell what bunches
Of hazelnuts are stored,
What dinners and what lunches
Are in that secret hoard.
O Squirry, nimble Squirry!
I love thy merry ways,
And never yet grew weary
To watch thee in thy plays.
THE SQUIRREL’S ARITHMETIC
High on the branch of a walnut-tree
A bright-eyed squirrel sat;
What was he thinking so earnestly?
And what was he looking at?
He was doing a problem o’er and o’er;
Busily thinking was he
How many nuts for his Winter’s store
Could he hide in the hollow tree?
He sat so still on the swaying bough
You might have thought him asleep;
Oh, no; he was trying to reckon now
The nuts the babies could eat.
Then suddenly he frisked about,
And down the tree he ran;
“The best way to do, without a doubt,
Is to gather all I can.”
—_Modern Instructor._
THE LAMB’S LULLABY
The pretty little lambs that lie
And sleep upon the grass
Have none to sing them lullaby
But the night winds as they pass--
While I, a happy little maid,
Bid dear papa good-night,
And in my crib so warm am laid,
And tucked up snug and tight.
Haste, kind mamma, and call them here,
Where they’ll be warm as I;
For in the chilly fields, I fear,
Before the morn they’ll die.
MOTHER
The lambs sleep in the fields, ’tis true,
Without a lullaby;
And yet they are as warm as you
Beneath a summer sky.
They choose some dry and grassy spot
Beneath the shady trees;
To other songs they listen not
While softly hums the breeze.
And when the night is bitter cold,
The shepherd comes with care,
And leads them to his peaceful fold;
They’re safe and sheltered there.
How happy are the lambs, my love,
How safe and calm they rest;
But you a Shepherd have above,
Of all kind shepherds best.
His lambs he gathers in his arms,
And in his bosom bears:
How blest, how safe from all alarms,
Each child his love who shares!
COUNTRY MUSIC
The cock is crowing,
The cows are lowing;
The sheep are baa-ing,
The boys ha-ha-ing;
The birds are singing,
The bells are ringing;
The brook is babbling,
The geese are gabbling;
The pigs are squeaking,
The barn-door creaking;
Sally is churning,
The grindstone turning;
John is sawing,
Willie hurrahing;
The peacock screeching,
And Carrie teaching
Amid all the noise.
[Illustration]
MARY AND HER LAMB
Mary had a little lamb,
Its fleece was white as snow;
And everywhere that Mary went,
The lamb was sure to go.
He followed her to school one day--
That was against the rule;
It made the children laugh and play
To see a lamb at school.
So the teacher turned him out,
But still he lingered near,
And waited patiently about
Till Mary did appear.
Then he ran to her, and laid
His head upon her arm,
As if he said: I’m not afraid;
You’ll keep me from all harm.
“What makes the lamb love Mary so?”
The eager children cry.
“Oh, Mary loves the lamb, you know,”
The teacher did reply.
And you each gentle animal
In confidence may bind,
And make them follow at your will,
If you are only kind.
OF WHAT ARE YOUR CLOTHES MADE?
Come here to mamma, and I’ll tell you, dear boy--
For I think you never have guessed--
How many poor animals we must employ
Before little George can be dressed.
The pretty sheep gives you the wool from his sides,
To make you a jacket to use;
The goat or the calf must be stripped of their hides,
To give you these nice little shoes.
And then the shy beaver contributes his share,
With the rabbit, to give you a hat,
For this must be made of their delicate hair;
And so you may thank them for that.
Then as the poor creatures thus suffer to give
So much for the comfort of man,
I think ’tis but right, that as long as they live
We should treat them as well as we can.
THE LITTLE FISH
“Dear mother,” said a little fish,
“Pray is not that a fly?
I’m very hungry, and I wish
You’d let me go and try.”
“Sweet innocent,” the mother cried,
And started from her nook,
“That horrid fly is put to hide
The sharpness of the hook.”
Now, as I’ve heard, this little trout
Was young and foolish too,
And so he thought he’d venture out
To see if it were true.
And round about the hook he played,
With many a longing look,
And, “Dear me,” to himself he said,
“I’m sure that’s not a _hook_.
“I can but give one little pluck:
Let’s see, and so I will.”
So on he went, and lo, it stuck
Quite through his little gill.
And as he faint and fainter grew,
With hollow voice he cried,
“Dear mother, had I minded you,
I need not now have died.”
THE REINDEER AND THE RABBIT
_Mary._--I wish I were a reindeer,
To gallop o’er the snow;
Over frosty Lapland drear
So merrily I’d go.
_Beth._--A little rabbit I would be,
With fur so soft and sleek,
And timid ears raised prettily,
And looks so very meek.
_Mary._--But then some sly and cruel rat
Would find your burrow out;
Or else the furious old gray cat
Might scratch your peepers out.
_Beth._—’Tis true they might, but don’t you know
The reindeer’s wretched lot?
His dinner and his bed are snow,
And supper he has not.
_Mary._--But then he is so useful, Beth,
His masters love him so!
Dear creatures, they do all they can,
And are content with snow.
THE PET LAMB