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Page 188—Squirrel Land
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The Squirrel I'm a merry, merry squirrel, All day I leap and whirl Through my home in the old beech-tree If you chase me I will run In the shade and in the sun; But you never, never can catch me For round a bough I'll creep, Playing hide and seek so sly; Or through the leaves bo-peep, With my little shining eye. Up and down I run and frisk, With my bushy tail to whisk All who mope in the old beech-trees. How droll to see the owl As I make him wink and growl, While his sleepy, sleepy head I tease! And I waken up the bat, Who flies off with a scream, For he thinks that I'm the cat Pouncing on him, in his dream. Through all the summer long I never want a song From birds in the old beech-trees I have singers all the night, And with the morning bright Come my busy, humming, fat, brown bees. When I've nothing else to do With the nursing birds I sit; And we laugh at the cuckoo A-coo-cooing to her tit! When winter comes with snow An its cruel tempests blow All my leaves from the old beech-trees, Then beside the wren and mouse I furnish up a house, Where, like a prince, I live at ease. What care I for hail or sleet, With my cozy cap and coat; And my tail about my feet, Or wrapped about my throat? Norman Macleod |
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Ducks and Ducklings One little white duck, One little grey, Six little black ducks Running out to play; One white lady-duck, Motherly and trim, Eight little baby ducks Bound for a swim. One little white duck Running from the water, One very fat duck— Pretty little daughter— One little grey duck Holding up its wings. One little bobbing duck Making water rings. One little black duck Standing on a stone, One little grey duck Swimming all alone, One little grey duck Holding down it's head. One sleepy little duck, It has gone to bed! One little what duck Running to its mother, Look among the water-reeds, May be there's another. One hungry little duck Going out to dine, Two dainty little ducks, Snowy-white and fine. Merry little brown eyes O'er the picture linger, Point all the ducks out, Chubby little finger; Make the picture musical, Merry little shout; Now where's that other duck? What is he about? I thank that other duck Is the nicest duck of all, He hasn't any feathers, And his mouth is sweet and small; He runs with a light step And jumps upon my knee, And though he cannot swim He is very dear to me. One white lady-duck, Motherly and trim, Eight little baby ducks Bound for a swim; One sleepy little duck Taking quite a nap, One precious little duck Here on mother's lap. A. L. |
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The Squirrel The pretty red squirrel Lives up in a tree, A little blithe creature As ever can be; He dwells in the boughs Where the stock-dove broods, Far in the shades Of the green summer woods; His food is the young Juicy cones of the pine, And the milky beech-nut Is his bread and his wine. In the joy of his nature He frisks with a bound To the topmost twigs, And then down to the ground. Then up again like A winged thing, And from tree to tree With a vaulting spring; Then he sits up aloft, And looks ragged and queer, As if he would say: "Ay, follow me here!" And then he grows pettish, And stamps his foot; And then with a chatter, He cracks his nut; And thus he lives All the long summer through, Without either a care Or a thought of rue. |
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The Mountain and the Squirrel The mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel, And the former called the latter "Little Prig;" Bun replied, "You are doubtless very big, But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken together To make up a year, And a sphere. And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place. If I'm not so large as you, You are not so small as I. And not half so spry; I'll not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track. Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack an nut!" R. W. Emerson |
