 | Sketches of Natural History |  |
141
THE DORMOUSE.
The little Dormouse is tawny red;
He makes against winter a nice snug bed,
He makes his bed in a mossy bank,
Where the plants in the summer grow tall and rank.
Away from the daylight, far underground,
His sleep through the winter is quiet and sound,
And when all above him it freezes and snows,
What is it to him, for he nought of it knows?
And till the cold time of the winter is gone,
The little Dormouse keeps sleeping on.
He makes against winter a nice snug bed,
He makes his bed in a mossy bank,
Where the plants in the summer grow tall and rank.
Away from the daylight, far underground,
His sleep through the winter is quiet and sound,
And when all above him it freezes and snows,
What is it to him, for he nought of it knows?
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The little Dormouse keeps sleeping on.
But at last, in the fresh breezy days of the spring,
When the green leaves bud, and the merry birds sing,
And the dread of the winter is over and past,
The little Dormouse peeps out at last.
Out of his snug, quiet burrow he wends,
And looks all about for his neighbours and friends;
Then he says, as he sits at the foot of a larch,
“'Tis a beautiful day, for the first day of March!
The Violet is blowing, the blue sky is clear;
The Lark is upspringing, his carol I hear;
And in the green fields are the Lamb and the Foal;
I am glad I'm not sleeping now down in my hole!”
When the green leaves bud, and the merry birds sing,
And the dread of the winter is over and past,
The little Dormouse peeps out at last.
Out of his snug, quiet burrow he wends,
And looks all about for his neighbours and friends;
Then he says, as he sits at the foot of a larch,
“'Tis a beautiful day, for the first day of March!
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The Lark is upspringing, his carol I hear;
And in the green fields are the Lamb and the Foal;
I am glad I'm not sleeping now down in my hole!”
Then away he runs, in his merry mood,
Over the fields and into the wood,
To find any grain there may chance to be,
Or any small berry that hangs on the tree.
So, from early morning, till late at night,
Has the poor little creature its own delight,
Looking down to the earth and up to the sky,
Thinking, “what a happy Dormouse am I!”
Over the fields and into the wood,
To find any grain there may chance to be,
Or any small berry that hangs on the tree.
So, from early morning, till late at night,
Has the poor little creature its own delight,
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Thinking, “what a happy Dormouse am I!”
| Sketches of Natural History | |