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A FLEDGLING
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 



A FLEDGLING

Why is it, little chick,” I said
“That you so ragged go?”
“Alas,” he answered, “father's dead
And mother cannot sew.
“She does her very best to lay,
Till I have learned to crow;
But bread is rising every day,
And eggs, alas, are low.”