I plucked a flag, half open
To the sunlight it waved and blew,
And bent o’er the water beside it
Where the sweet pond-lilies grew.
The stem broke short in my fingers,
The bloom remained in my grasp,
But the life of the swaying pretty thing
I tried in vain to clasp.
The breezes were floating gently by
The calm, peaceful waters reflected the sky;
The flag-stalk nodded its flowerless head,
In my hand lay the blossom withering, dead.
I stood for a moment longing
As I seldom had longed before,
Longing for even the life that was gone
To return to that flower no more.
But the breezes bent over me softly
And whispered, the lost is found,
For whatever you pluck from the surface
Is restored once more in the ground;
For the gardens of earth hold blossoms more fair
Than the one you have plucked and are holding there.
—Ella Van Fossen.
IN THE HOLLOW OF HIS HAND.
(From an Ornithologist’s Year Book.)
So tiny that a child’s small palm can cover its whole body, inaudible at
a few paces’ distance, invisible till it rises at your very feet, such
is our yellow-winged sparrow. Yet he is a marvel; his plumage shows an
exquisite mimicry of the earth tints, “the upper parts mixed black,
rufous-brown, ashy and cream-buff,” with a touch of “yellowish
olive-green” for the herbage, and here and there an orange or yellow
shade, and a dusky whiteness beneath, to give the effect of light. What
could be more perfect? No wonder the wee householders, with a nest of
fine-woven grasses, low upon the ground, sits unseen on her “clutch” of
wee speckled eggs within reach of your fingers. She knows this well, and
will not rise until you are almost upon her retreat. Nor will she fly
far. A fence post, a low shrub will serve as her watchtower until danger
is over.
Our yellow-tinted sparrow has another name, the “Grasshopper Sparrow,”
from its insect-like tremolo and chirp. Its song is a chord or two and a
long trill on the insect letter, z. It is sung, to the eye, with a
hearty abandon of joy, the head thrown back and mouth open, in a fine
pose of ecstasy; yet, unless all around is still, and you listen with
attention, not a sound will you hear, so small and fine are the
vibrating tones. It is said, in a story of the Highlands, that on
certain nights, if a man will but lay a couchant ear close to the breast
of the earth, he may hear the fine, fine piping of the fairy tunes
played in the underworld. Our bird’s song is one of these faint, sweet
voices of the earth, like the music that breathes from every clod or
leaf when the old world lies dreaming and dozing in a bit of holiday
after work is done on a warm, sunny afternoon in autumn, a musical,
tremulous, sweet piping everywhere.
Yet not one of these small creatures is forgotten before its Father.
When the frost is in the air, and winter is near, the Divine impulse
stirs in its breast, and its little wings will bear it far, far away in
the long, mysterious journey over sea to the warm islands of the
Atlantic. There it will sing for joy with its fellows in the sun, but
when April returns, look well. Is there not a stir in the short grass?
And listen. The faint, dream-like thrill throbs again in the throat of
the sparrow, and our ground-dweller has returned. It is a parable of
God’s care for His little ones.
Ella F. Mosby.