And a lapful of flowers,
And these dear nestlings, aged three hours;
And here’s their mother sitting,
Their father merely flitting
To find their breakfast somewhere in my bowers.
(As she speaks April shows March her apron full of flowers and nest full of birds. March wanders away into the grounds. April, without entering the cottage, hangs over the hungry nestlings watching them.)
April.
What beaks you have, you funny things,
What voices, shrill and weak;
Who’d think anything that sings