Voices for the Speechless Part 21

THE SPARROW.

Glad to see you, little bird; 'Twas your little chirp I heard: What did you intend to say?

"Give me something this cold day?"

That I will, and plenty too; All the crumbs I saved for you.

Don't be frightened: here's a treat.

I will wait and see you eat.

Shocking tales I hear of you; Chirp, and tell me, are they true?

Robbing all the summer long; Don't you think it very wrong?

Thomas says you steal his wheat; John complains his plums you eat, Choose the ripest for your share, Never asking whose they are?

But I will not try to know What you did so long ago: There's your breakfast; eat away; Come and see me every day.

_Child's Book of Poetry._

PICCOLA AND SPARROW.

Poor, sweet Piccola! Did you hear What happened to Piccola, children dear?

'Tis seldom Fortune such favor grants As fell to this little maid of France.

'Twas Christmas-time, and her parents poor Could hardly drive the wolf from the door, Striving with poverty's patient pain Only to live till summer again.

No gifts for Piccola! Sad were they When dawned the morning of Christmas Day; Their little darling no joy might stir, St. Nicholas nothing would bring to her!

But Piccola never doubted at all That something beautiful must befall Every child upon Christmas Day, And so she slept till the dawn was gray.

And, full of faith, when at last she woke, She stole to her shoe as the morning broke; Such sounds of gladness tilled all the air, 'Twas plain St. Nicholas had been there!

In rushed Piccola sweet, half wild: Never was seen such a joyful child.

"See what the good saint brought!" she cried, And mother and father must peep inside.

Now such a story who ever heard?

There was a little shivering bird!

A sparrow, that in at the window flew, Had crept into Piccola's tiny shoe!

"How good Piccola must have been!"

She cried as happy as any queen, While the starving sparrow she fed and warmed, And danced with rapture, she was so charmed.

Children, this story I tell to you, Of Piccola sweet and her bird, is true.

In the far-off land of France, they say, Still do they live to this very day.

CELIA THAXTER.

LITTLE SPARROW.

Touch not the little sparrow who doth build His home so near us. He doth follow us, From spot to spot, amidst the turbulent town, And ne'er deserts us. To all other birds The woods suffice, the rivers, the sweet fields, And Nature in her aspect mute and fair; But he doth herd with men. Blithe servant! live, Feed, and grow cheerful! on my window's ledge I'll leave thee every morning some fit food In payment for thy service.

BARRY CORNWALL.

THE SWALLOW.

A swallow in the spring Came to our granary, and beneath the eaves Essayed to make a nest, and there did bring Wet earth and straw and leaves.

Day after day she toiled With patient art; but, ere her work was crowned, Some sad mishap the tiny fabric spoiled, And dashed it to the ground.

She found the ruin wrought; But, not cast down, forth from the place she flew, And, with her mate, fresh earth and gra.s.ses brought, And built her nest anew.

But scarcely had she placed The last soft feather on its ample floor, When wicked hands, on chance, again laid waste, And wrought the ruin o'er.

But still her heart she kept, And toiled again; and last night, hearing calls, I looked,--and, lo! three little swallows slept Within the earth-made walls.

What truth is here, O man!

Hath hope been smitten in its early dawn?

Have clouds o'ercast thy purpose, truth, or plan?

Have faith, and struggle on!

R. S. ANDROS.

THE EMPEROR'S BIRD'S-NEST.

Once the Emperor Charles of Spain, With his swarthy, grave commanders, I forget in what campaign, Long besieged, in mud and rain, Some old frontier town of Flanders.

Up and down the dreary camp, In great boots of Spanish leather, Striding with a measured tramp, These Hidalgos, dull and damp, Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the weather.

Thus as to and fro they went, Over upland and through hollow, Giving their impatience vent, Perched upon the Emperor's tent, In her nest, they spied a swallow.

Yes, it was a swallow's nest, Built of clay and hair of horses, Mane, or tail, or dragoon's crest, Found on hedge-rows east and west, After skirmish of the forces.

Then an old Hidalgo said, As he twirled his gray mustachio, "Sure this swallow overhead Thinks the Emperor's tent a shed, And the Emperor but a Macho!"

Hearing his imperial name Coupled with those words of malice, Half in anger, half in shame, Forth the great campaigner came Slowly from his canvas palace.

"Let no hand the bird molest,"

Said he solemnly, "nor hurt her!"

Adding then, by way of jest, "Golondrina is my guest, 'Tis the wife of some deserter!"

Swift as bowstring speed, a shaft, Through the camp was spread the rumor, And the soldiers, as they quaffed Flemish beer at dinner, laughed At the Emperor's pleasant humor.