Here in the garden-bed,
Hoeing the celery,
Wonders the Lord has made
Pass ever before me.
I saw the young birds build,
And swallows come and go,
And summer grow and gild,
And winter die in snow.
Many a thing I note,
And store it in my mind;
For all my ragged coat,
That scarce will stop the wind.
I light my pipe and draw,
And, leaning on my spade,
I marvel with much awe
O'er all the Lord hath made.
Now, here's a curious thing:
Upon the first of March,
The crow goes house-building,
In the elms and in the larch.
And be it shine or snow,
Though many winds carouse,
That day the artful crow
Begins to build his house.
But then--the wonder's big!--
_If Sunday fall that day_
_Nor straw, nor scraw, nor twig,
Till Monday will he lay._
His black wings to his side,
He'll drone upon his perch,
Subdued and holy-eyed,
As though he were at church.
The crow's a gentleman
Not greatly to my mind,
He'll steal what seeds he can,
And all you hide he'll find.
Yet though he's bully and sneak,
To small birds bird of prey--
He counts the days of the week,
And keeps the Sabbath day.
_Katharine Tynan Hinkson_