And since he grieves that he never can fly.
Like all the other birds, up in the sky,
The fairies put him now and again
High on a church for a weather-vane.
Little for sun or for rain he cares;
He turns about with the proudest airs
And chuckles with joy as the clouds go past
To think he is up in the sky at last.
THE GROUSE
The Grouse that lives on the moorland wide
Is filled with a most ridiculous pride;
He thinks that it all belongs to him,
And every one else must obey his whim.
When the queer wee folk who live on the moors
Come joyfully leaping out of their doors
To frisk about on the warm sweet heather
Laughing and chattering all together,
He looks askance at their rollicking play
And calls to them in the angriest way:
"You're a feather-brained, foolish, frivolous pack,
Go back, you rascally imps, go back!"
But little enough they heed his shout,
Over the rocks they tumble about;
They chase each other over the ling;
They kick their heels in the heather and sing:
"Oho, Mr. Grouse, you'd best beware,
Or some fine day, if you don't take care,
The witch who lives in the big brown bog
With a wise old weasel, a rat and a frog,
Will come a-capering over the fell
And put you under a horrible spell;
Your feathers will moult and your voice will crack—
Go back, you silly old bird, go back!"
A LITTLE GIRL
BEFORE
Before I was a little girl I was a little bird,
I could not laugh, I could not dance, I could not speak a word;
But all about the woods I went and up into the sky—
And isn't it a pity I've forgotten how to fly?