A BLUEBIRD'S SONG.
| There's a glad merry voice, children, calling to you, A gay burst of song from a wee bit of blue, Poised daintily there on the maple-twig now, Like a bright little blossom upon the bare bough,— "Tu-ra-la, tu-ra-lee, We're coming, you see: I'm building my nest in the old apple-tree. "To you, little children, this message I bring, The birds, every one, will return with the spring. What care I if cold winds are blowing around! The flowers are already awake under ground. Tu-ra-la, tu-ra-lee: If snowflakes I see, I'll dream they are blooms shaken off from the tree. "Hark! the shy little brooklet is humming a song As it breaks loose from winter, and dances along. How happy we'll be through the blithe summer hours,— The children, the sunbeams, the birds, and the flowers! Tu-ra-la, tu-ra-lee: How busy we'll be, My sweet mate and I, in the old apple-tree!" RUTH REVERE. |
