My Dear Little Maid:
We must bid you good-by,
For November is here, and it’s time we should fly
To the South, where we have an engagement to sing,
But, remember this, dear, we’ll return in the spring.
And if, while abroad, we hear anything new,
We’ll learn it, and sing it next summer to you
In the same little tree on the lawn, if you’ll let us.
So, good-by, little maiden! Please do not forget us.
We’re sorry to leave you—too sorry for words,
And we’ll always remain,
Yours sincerely, “The Birds.”
P. S.—Please don’t mind if this letter sounds flat,
And present our respectful regards to your cat.
The Spider’s Tale.
The Poet offereth to deliver a Fly from the Spider’s web.
“Really, Fly, you ought to know
Better, surely, than to go
Into Mr. Spider’s net.
Luckily I’m here to set
You free”; but ere I could have stirred,
Mr. Spider’s voice I heard
Crying in an angry tone:
“Better let my lunch alone!
Even Spiders’ rights must be respected.