Of plump ruffed grouse he showed with pride
Angelic grief was in her face:
“How could you do it, dear?” she sighed.
“The poor, pathetic, moveless wings!
The songs all hushed—oh, cruel shame!”
Said he, “The partridge never sings.”
Said she, “The sin is quite the same.
“You men are savage through and through.
A boy is always bringing in
Some string of bird’s eggs, white and blue,