"The fowls of heaven
Tam'd by the cruel season, crowd around
The winnowing store, and claim the little boon
Which Providence assigns them."
It is pleasant to think that they seldom appeal in vain. "Crumbs for the birds" are scattered by kindly little hands everywhere in winter, and in many a house a pet sonsie little robin is a cherished visitor, always welcome to his small share of the good things of this life.
Our ramble might be indefinitely prolonged and still be full of interest and instruction, but in these simple remarks enough has been shown, I trust, to lead many to think and observe closely every, even the minutest, thing that catches their attention whilst out for a ramble in lanes and fields, even a microscopic moss upon an old wall has been suggestive of many lovely thoughts, with which I will conclude our ramble and this chapter.
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"It was not all a tale of eld, That fairies, who their revels held By moonlight, in the greenwood shade Their beakers of the moss-cups made. The wondrous light which science burns Reveals those lovely jewelled urns! Fair lace-work spreads from roughest stems And shows each tuft a mine of gems. Voices from the silent sod, Speaking of the Perfect God. Fringeless, or fringed, and fringed again, No single leaflet formed in vain; What wealth of heavenly wisdom lies Within one moss-cup's mysteries! And few may know what silvery net, Down in its mimic depths is set To catch the rarest dews that fall Upon the dry and barren wall. Voices from the silent sod, Speaking of the Perfect God." L. N. R. |
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