 | Bits of Talk, in verse and prose, for young folks |  |
97
THE NEST.
Under the apple-tree, somebody said,
Look at that robin's nest overhead!
All of sharp sticks, and of mud and clay—
What a rough home for a summer day!”
Gaunt stood the apple-tree, gaunt and bare,
And creaked in the winds which blustered there.
The nest was wet with the April rain;
The clay ran down in an ugly stain;
Little it looked, I must truly say,
Like a lovely home for a summer day.
Look at that robin's nest overhead!
All of sharp sticks, and of mud and clay—
What a rough home for a summer day!”
Gaunt stood the apple-tree, gaunt and bare,
And creaked in the winds which blustered there.
The nest was wet with the April rain;
The clay ran down in an ugly stain;
Little it looked, I must truly say,
Like a lovely home for a summer day.
Up in the apple-tree, somebody laughed,
“Little you know of the true home-craft.
Laugh if you like, at my sticks and clay;
They'll make a good home for a summer day.
May turns the apple-tree pink and white,
Sunny all day, and fragrant all night.
My babies will never feel the showers,
For rain can't get through these feathers of ours.
Sung under my wings they will cuddle and creep,
The happiest babies awake or asleep,”
Said the robin-mother, flying away
After more of the sticks and mud and clay.
“Little you know of the true home-craft.
Laugh if you like, at my sticks and clay;
They'll make a good home for a summer day.
May turns the apple-tree pink and white,
Sunny all day, and fragrant all night.
My babies will never feel the showers,
For rain can't get through these feathers of ours.
Sung under my wings they will cuddle and creep,
The happiest babies awake or asleep,”
Said the robin-mother, flying away
After more of the sticks and mud and clay.
98
Under the apple-tree somebody sighed,
“Ah me, the blunder of folly and pride!
The roughest small house of mud or clay
Might be a sweet home for a summer day,
Sunny and fragrant all day, all night,
With only good cheer for fragrance and light;
And the bitterest storms of grief and pain
Will beat and break on that home in vain,
Where a true-hearted mother broods alway,
And makes the whole year like a summer day.”
“Ah me, the blunder of folly and pride!
The roughest small house of mud or clay
Might be a sweet home for a summer day,
Sunny and fragrant all day, all night,
With only good cheer for fragrance and light;
And the bitterest storms of grief and pain
Will beat and break on that home in vain,
Where a true-hearted mother broods alway,
And makes the whole year like a summer day.”
| Bits of Talk, in verse and prose, for young folks | |