"Tell him I'll get up in a minute," yawned Marjorie.
So the Dove, who slept in Marjorie's cabin in a pretty gilt cage, spoke to the Weathercock, after which she commenced to sing:
There's a robin in the woodland,
There's a robin in the sea,
But they are just as different
As different can be.
The one that's in the forest
Has feathers and a tail;
The one that's in the ocean
Has a scaly coat of mail.
The robin in the forest
Could never take a swim;
The robin of the ocean
Could never fly or skim
Across a grassy meadow,
Nor fly up in a tree.
But he can do all kinds of stunts
Within the deep blue sea.
"Where did you learn all that?" asked Marjorie, pulling on her stockings.
"Listen; there's another verse and maybe two or three," cooed the Dove, and then she began to sing again:
The robin of the woodland
Has a pretty crimson vest;
He sings a merry, blithesome song
And builds a cozy nest.
The robin of the ocean
Has fins that look like wings.
He doesn't build a nest at all,
He grunts, but never sings.
Yet both of them are robins,
As some of us have heard—
Although the ocean one's a fish,
The woodland one's a bird.
"Cock-a-doodle-do!" crowed the Weathercock, as the Dove finished her song.
"Hurrah for you! You are the poet of the Ark."
"Oh, no!" replied the modest little Dove. "That is not my own. My mother taught me that song when I was a Dovelet."
"Is that so?" said the Weathercock, and he gave a sigh of relief, for I guess he wanted to be the only poet on board the Ark and sing his little songs every morning just as he had always done.