Their little darling no joy might stir, But Piccola never doubted at all And, full of faith, when at last she woke, In rushed Piccola sweet, half wild: "See what the good saint brought!" she cried, Now such a story who ever heard? There was a little shivering bird! "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. CELIA THAXTER. LITTLE SPARROW. Touch not the little sparrow who doth build BARRY CORNWALL THE SWALLOW. A swallow in the spring Came to our granary, and beneath the eaves Day after day she toiled With patient art; but, ere her work was crowned, 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 grasses 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, - and, lo! three little swallows slept I looked, Within the earth-made walls. What truth is here, O man! Hath hope been smitten in its early dawn? R. S. ANDROS. THE EMPEROR'S BIRD'S-NEST. Once the Emperor Charles of Spain, Long besieged, in mud and rain, Some old frontier town of Flanders. Up and down the dreary camp, In great boots of Spanish leather, 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, Yes, it was a swallow's nest, Built of clay and hair of horses, Mane, or tail, or dragoon's crest, Then an old Hidalgo said, As he twirled his gray mustachio, Hearing his imperial name Coupled with those words of malice, "Let no hand the bird molest," Said he solemnly, 66 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. So unharmed and unafraid Sat the swallow still and brooded, Through the walls a breach had made, Then the army, elsewhere bent, So it stood there all alone, Loosely flapping, torn and tattered, Which the cannon-shot had shattered. H. W. LONGfellow. TO A SWALLOW BUILDING UNDER OUR EAVES. Thou too hast travelled, little fluttering thing - But much, my little bird, couldst thou but tell, I'd give to know why here thou lik'st so well To build thy nest. For thou hast passed fair places in thy flight; Of all the varied scenes that met thine eye Did fortune try thee? was thy little purse Ah no! thou need'st not gold, thou happy one! |