You pet! What dost here? and what for?
In these woods, thy small Labrador,
At this pinch, wee San Salvador!
What fire burns in that little chest
So frolic, stout, and self-possest?
Henceforth I swear no stripe but thine,
Ashes and jet all hues outshine.
Why are not diamonds black and gray,
To ape thy dare-devil array?
And I affirm, the spacious north
Exists to draw thy virtue forth.
I think no virtue goes with size;
The reason of all cowardice
Is, that men are overgrown,
And, to be valiant, must come down
To the titmouse dimension.
With glad remembrance of my debt,
I homeward turn; farewell, my pet!
When here again thy pilgrim comes,
He shall bring store of seeds and crumbs.
Doubt not, so long as earth has bread,
Thou first and foremost shalt be fed ;
The Providence that is most large
Takes hearts like thine in special charge,
Helps who for their own need are strong,
And the sky doats on cheerful song.
Henceforth I prize thy every chant
O'er all that mass and minster vaunt;
For men mishear thy call in Spring,
As 't would accost some frivolous wing,
Crying out of the hazel copse, Phe-be!
And, in winter, Chic-a-dee-dee!
I think old Cæsar must have heard
In northern Gaul my dauntless bird,
And, echoed in some frosty wold,
Borrowed thy battle-numbers bold.
And I will write our annals new,
And thank thee for a better clew,
I, who dreamed not when I came here
To find the antidote of fear,
Now hear thee say in Roman key,
Pæan! Veni, vidi, vici.
CHRISTMAS IN NORWAY.
IN the far-off land of Norway,
Where the winter lingers late,
And long for the singing birds and flowers,
The little children wait,
When at last the summer ripens
And the harvest is gathered in,
And food for the bleak, drear days to come
The toiling people win,
Through all the land the children
In the golden fields remain
Till their busy little hands have gleaned
A generous sheaf of grain;
All the stalks by the reapers forgotten
They glean to the very least,
To save till the cold December,
For the sparrows' Christmas feast.
And then through the frost-locked country
There happens a wonderful thing:
The sparrows flock north, south, east, west,
For the children's offering.
Of a sudden, the day before Christmas,
The twittering crowds arrive,
And the bitter, wintry air at once
With their chirping is all alive.
They perch upon roof and gable,
On porch and fence and tree,
They flutter about the windows
And peer in curiously.
On the joyous Christmas morning,
In front of every door.
A tall pole, crowned with clustering grain,
Is set the birds before.
And which are the happiest, truly
It would be hard to tell;
The sparrows who share in the Christmas cheer Or the children who love them well!
THE ground was covered with snow one day,
And two little sisters were busy at play,
When a snow-bird was sitting close by on a tree,
And merrily singing his chick-a-de-dee,
Chick-a-de-dee, chick-a-de-dee,
And merrily singing his chick-a-de-dee.
He had not been singing that tune very long,
Ere Emily heard him, so loud was his song:
“Oh, sister, look out of the window," said she;
"There's a dear little bird singing chick-a-de-dee,
Chick-a-de-dee, chick-a-de-dee,
There's a dear little bird singing chick-a-de-dee.
"Oh, mother, do get him some stockings and shoes,
And a nice little frock, and a hat if he choose;
I wish he'd come into our parlor and see
How warm we would make him, poor chick-a-de-dee,
Chick-a-de-dee, chick-a-de-dee,
How warm we would make him, poor chick-a-de-dee.”
"There is One, my dear child, though I cannot tell who,
Has clothed me already, and warm enough too.
Good morning! Oh, who are so happy as we?"
And away he went singing his chick-a-de-dee,
Chick-a-de-dee, chick-a-de-dee,
he went singing his chick-a-de-dee.
THOU sing'st alone on the bare wintry bough,
As if spring with its leaves were around thee now;
And its voice that was heard in the laughing rill,
And the breeze as it whispered o'er meadow and hill,
Still fell on thine ear as it murmured along
To join the sweet tide of thine own gushing song.
Sing on! though its sweetness was lost on the blast,
And the storm has not heeded thy song as it passed,
Yet its music awoke in a heart that was near
A thought whose remembrance will ever prove dear.
Though the brook may be frozen, though silent its voice,
And the gales through the meadows no longer rejoice,
Still I felt as my ear caught thy glad note of glee,
That my heart in life's winter might carol like thee.
THE BOB-O-LINK.
BOB-O-LINK! that in the meadow
Or beneath the orchard's shadow
Keepest up a constant rattle
Joyous as my children's prattle,
Welcome to the north again!
Welcome to mine ear thy strain,
Welcome to mine eye the sight
Of thy buff, the black and white.
Brighter plumes may greet the sun,
By the banks of Amazon:
Sweeter tones may weave the spell
Of enchanting Philomel:
But the tropic bird would fail
And the English nightingale,
If we should compare their worth,
With thine endless gushing mirth.
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