The Robin—

"I am a robin, very brown

And big and plump and smooth and round.

My breast is pretty, bright and red

And see this top-knot on my head!

I heard the boys awhile ago

Shooting robins o'er the snow,

And flew away in trembling fear

And thought I'd hide from them in here.

The Blue Bird—

I'm a blue bird. Don't you see

Me sitting on this apple-tree,

I left my nest an hour ago

To look for bugs and worms, you know;

And now I know the very thing—

That while I'm waiting I will sing,

Oh! beautiful and balmy spring.

The Woodpecker—

I'm a woodpecker—a bird

Whose sound through wood and dale is heard.

I tap, tap, tap, with noisy glee,

To test the bark of every tree.

I saw a rainbow stretching gay,

Across the sky, the other day;

And some one said, "Good-bye to rain,

The woodpecker has come again."

The Lark—

I'm the lark and early rise

To greet the sun-god of the skies,

And upright cleave the freshening air,

To sail in regions still more fair.

Who could not soar on lusty wing,

His Maker's praises thus to sing?

The Nightingale—

In music I excel the lark,

She comes at dawn, I come at dark,

And when the stars are shining bright,

I sing the praises of the night.

In Concert—

Oh! in a chorus sweet we'll sing,

And wake the echoes of the spring."

"Little by little," the acorn said,

As it slowly sank in its mossy bed,

"I am improving every day,

Hidden deep in the earth away."

Little by little each day it grew;

Little by little it sipped the dew;

Downward it sent out a threadlike root;

Up in the air sprung a tiny shoot,

Day after day, and year after year,

Little by little the leaves appear;

And the slender branches spread far and wide,

Till the mighty oak is the forest's pride.

"Little by little," said the thoughtful boy,

"Moment by moment, I'll well employ,

Learning a little every day,

And not misspending my time in play;

Whatever I do I will do it well.

Little by little, I'll learn to know

The treasured wisdom of long ago;

And one of these days, perhaps, will see

That the world will be the better for me."

"A tiny little pollywog,

And little brothers three,

Lived in the water near a log,

As happy as could be.

A-swimming, swimming all the day,

A-sleeping all the night,

And trying, though they were so gay,

To do just what was right;

A-growing, growing all the while,

Because they did their best;

But I am afraid that you will smile

When I tell you the rest.

One morning, sitting on the log,

They looked in mute surprise;

Four legs had every pollywog,

Where two had met their eyes.

Their mother, letting fall a tear,

Said, "Oh, my pollywogs,

It can't be you that sitting here!"

For all of them were frogs.

And with their legs they've grown some lungs;

So you just wait and see.

In summer time their little tongues

Will sing 'Kachink' with glee."

Dear little tree that we plant today

What will you be when we're old and gray?

"The savings bank of the squirrel and mouse,

For robin and wren an apartment house,

The dressing-room of the butterfly's ball,

The locust's and katydid's concert hall,

The school-boy's ladder in pleasant June,

The school-girl's tent in the July noon.

And my leaves shall whisper them merrily,

A tale of the children who planted me."

A Robin once sat in the bright winter's sun,

A foolish red robin was he,

For he sang a sweet song that springtime had come

When the day was as cold as could be.

So gay was his song of the warmth of the hour,

So merrily babbled the sound,

That it stole through the dream of a dear little flower

Who was slumbering under the ground.

The sleeper awakened, soft lifted the sod

And harkened the robin's sweet song,

Full glad was her heart and thankful to God

That winter so quickly had gone.

The robin still sang and the dear little flower

Unfolded her petals of pink:—

"I'll hold up my chalice," she said, "for a shower

That from me my robin may drink."

The singer flew quickly to welcome his love,—

His love that was faltering low:—

Oh, where was the warmth from the heaven above?

Instead of a shower there was snow.

Then robin quick covered her o'er with his wing,

"Don't leave me, I love you," he cried:

And he kissed her so tenderly, poor little thing,

But the blossom, his loved one, had died.

Red robin still sits in the bright winter's sun,

But a sorrowing robin is he;

No longer he sings that the springtime has come

When the day is as cold as can be.

Give fools their gold and knaves their power;

Let fortune's bubbles rise and fall;

Who sows a field, or trains a flower

Or plants a tree is more than all.

For he who blesses most is blest;

And God and man shall own his worth

Who toils to leave as his bequest

An added beauty to the earth.

He sits on the branch of yon blossoming tree,

This mad-cap cousin of Robin and Thrush,

And sings without ceasing the whole morning long;

Now wild, now tender, the wayward song

That flows from his soft gray, fluttering throat;

But oft he stops in his sweetest note,

And shaking a flower from the blossoming bough,

Drawls out: "Mi-eu, mi-ow!"

He didn't know much music

When first he come along;

An' all the birds went wonderin'

Why he didn't sing a song.

They primed their feathers in the sun,

An' sung their sweetest notes;

An' music jest come on the run

From all their purty throats!

But still that bird was silent

In summer time an' fall;

He jest set still an' listened

An' he wouldn't sing at all!

But one night when them songsters

Was tired out an' still,

An' the wind sighed down the valley

An' went creepin' up the hill;

When the stars was all a-tremble

In the dreamin' fields o' blue,

An' the daisy in the darkness

Felt the fallin' o' the dew,—

There come a sound o' melody

No mortal ever heard,

An' all the birds seemed singin'

From the throat o' one sweet bird!

Then the other birds went playin'

In a land too fur to call;

Fer there warn't no use in stayin'

When one bird could sing fer all!