Графични страници
PDF файл
ePub

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 filled all the air,
'T was 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 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?
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,

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,
Till the constant cannonade

Through the walls a breach had made,
And the siege was thus concluded.

Then the army, elsewhere bent,
Struck its tents as if disbanding,
Only not the Emperor's tent,
For he ordered, ere he went,
Very curtly, "Leave it standing!"

So it stood there all alone,

Loosely flapping, torn and tattered,
Till the brood was fledged and flown,
Singing o'er those walls of stone

Which the cannon-shot had shattered.

H. W. LONGfellow.

TO A SWALLOW BUILDING UNDER OUR EAVES.

[ocr errors]

Thou too hast travelled, little fluttering thing -
Hast seen the world, and now thy weary wing
Thou too must rest.

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;
A world lay all beneath thee where to light;
And, strange thy taste,

Of all the varied scenes that met thine eye
Of all the spots for building 'neath the sky
To choose this waste.

Did fortune try thee? was thy little purse
Perchance run low, and thou, afraid of worse,
Felt here secure?

Ah no! thou need'st not gold, thou happy one!
Thou know'st it not. Of all God's creatures, man
Alone is poor.

« ПредишнаНапред »