His native notes are bold and full,
And then he'll imitate,
Till it would seem the feathered tribe
Were all arrayed in state.
He'll whistle for the dog or cat,
Will squeak like chicken, hurt,
And cluck and crow and bark and mew,
So comical and curt.
While blue-birds warble, swallows scream,
Or hens will cackle clear.
In robin's song, the whip-poor-will
Pours forth his plaint so near. [{196}]
Canaries, hang-birds, nightingales,
He echoes loud and long;
While they stand silent, mortified,
He triumphs in his song.
THE BUSY BEES.
Why do the little busy bees
So dearly love their queen,
And wait upon and pay respect,
With watchful care and mien?
Because the queen lays all the eggs,
And mothers all the young,
While every father-bee that's hatched
Is nothing but a drone.
The working bees might all be queens,
If cared for and well-fed
When they are in the larvae state,
But they're half-starved instead,--
While those intended for young queens
Are fattened overmuch,
And nursed and petted every hour,
That they full growth may reach.
For every different kind of egg
That makes the different bees,
A different kind of cell is made,
The queen directing these.
For drones or males, six-sided cells,
Quite neat, and smooth, and nice;
For working-bees a smaller cell,
Uncouth, and rough, and coarse;