FRINGILLA

SOME TALES IN VERSE

"What means your finch?"

"Being well aware that he cannot sing like a Nightingale,
He flits about from tree to tree, and twitters a little tale."

     Albeit he is an ancient bird, who tried
     his pipe in better days, and then was
     scared by random shots, he is fain to
     lift the migrant wing once more towards the
     humble perch, among the trees he loves. All
     gardeners own that he does no harm, unless
     he flits into a thicket of young buds, or a very
     choice ladies' seed-bed. And he hopes that he is
     now too wise to commit such indiscretions.

     Perhaps it would have been wiser still to
     have shut up his little mandible, or employed it

     only upon grub. But the long gnaw of last
     winter's frost, which set mankind a-shivering,
     even in their most downy nest, has made them
     kindly to the race that has no roof for shelter
     and no hearth for warmth.

     Anyhow, this little finch can do no harm,
     if he does no good; and if he pleases nobody,
     he will not be surprised, because he has never
     satisfied himself.

     May-day, 1895.