قراءة كتاب Nestlings A Collection of Poems
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hiding the theft by a lie
Is the poorest rule for a bird to try.
We have borne with him for many a year,
But now we must act. Have I made it clear?"
And he loudly read from the law a clause,
Then flew to his perch, amid loud applause.
The charge to the jury was something fine,
Pathos and power in every line.
They were out but a moment, then entered again,
Nor had the eloquent charge been vain;
For the verdict "Guilty," rang out clear,
Filling the pris'ner with abject fear.
Then the Judge rose up, and shaking his head,
Solemnly, thus the sentence read:
"Let every bird from yon prisoner's breast,
A feather pluck for the Wren's new nest."
Scarce had they heard the words pronounced
Ere they all in a mob on the culprit pounced,
Each plucking a feather, he flew to the glen
Eager to comfort the poor little Wren.
The Mocking Bird shivered with cold and pain,
"Oh! never," he cried, "will I steal again,
And I'll try, oh! I'll try to do what is right,
Nor ever be found in such a sad plight."
The dear, gentle Dove, who had lingered behind,
Came close to the prisoner, loving and kind,
And she whispered so low, "Come home to my nest;
I'll care for you tenderly, give you my best.
I know you are sorry, I know you will try,
So come, let us home to my warm nest fly."
So nursed by the Dove, one fair summer day,
He kissed her and blessed her, and then flew away.
But whether he truly became a good bird
I'm sure I can't say, as I never have heard.
But I know on his record there'll ever remain,
Though the act be repented, its dark, ugly stain;
And he'll find o'er and o'er such tricks do not pay,
For punishment comes, and oft comes to stay.
No matter how small is the act that we do,
This thing, little children, you'll find always true:
That somehow or some way it does come about,
The wrong that we do will soon find us out,
And we're filled with such sorrow and in such a plight,
We see very clearly, "'Tis best to do right."
Who's Afraid
Run, little man, or old Jack Frost
Will catch you ere you know it,
I am sure you are half afraid of him,
Though your manner does not show it.
With your soft warm cap and your overcoat,
You think you can safely meet him.
The harsh old fellow will have to look sharp,
Or the coy little man will cheat him.
See how bravely he faces the piercing wind,
Not afraid of the cold is he,
And the roses bloom on his rounded cheek,
As he romps in his boyish glee.
Heigh-ho, little man, if you meet the storms,
That blow o'er the hills of life,
With half the courage you show to-day,
You are sure to win in the strife.
Then go, little man, and never you fear
But look the world in the face,
And you'll find on the heights of life, my boy,
That world will make you a place.
'Tis only the brave that fortune finds,
'Tis only the good who win;
The sluggards' bulwarks are tumbled down,
And he falls in the gutters of sin.
So up, little man, and never say fail,
Though frosts of adversity fall;
With courage your armor, and hope for a sword,
There is naught your heart can appall.
Lullaby
Slumber sweet, noddlekins,
Nurse is full of prickly pins,
Mamma's full of kisses sweet
For dimpled hands and rosy feet.
Slumber comes—close your eyes,
Angels watch you from the skies,
Little dreams come drifting down
To veil those roguish eyes of brown.
Nestling close on Mamma's arm,
You are safe from every harm.
Close I clasp you—all my joy,
Centers in you—darling boy.
Now your eyelid fringes meet,
Kissed by slumbers, soft and sweet.
Who can wonder, angels keep
Tender watch when babies sleep?
For I'm sure no lovelier sight
Ever graces realms of light,
They are golden links of love
Binding earth to Heaven above.
Sleep, my baby, sleep and rest,
Nestled close on Mother's breast;
Harm can never reach you here,
God and Mother guard you, dear.
Two of Them
Where is the little boy Tommy?
Not in the parlor with hammer and tacks,
Not in the kitchen with sharp little axe,
Not on the lawn where patient old Bose
Lies half asleep with a fly on his nose;
Not in the garden planting his seeds,
Pulling up flowers as often as weeds,
No little Tommy.
Nor in the barn do I see his short legs,
Climbing the ladder to hunt for the eggs;
Nor yet in the meadow where cowslips are yellow,
Half hid
