When the arts in their infancy were,
In a fable of old 'tis expressed
A wise magpie constructed that rare 15
Little house for young birds, called a nest.
This was talked of the whole country round;
You might hear it on every bough sung;
"Now no longer upon the rough ground
Will fond mothers brood over their young:
"For the magpie with exquisite skill 5
Has invented a moss-covered cell
Within which a whole family will
In the utmost security dwell."
To her mate did each female bird say:
"Let us fly to the magpie, my dear; 10
If she will but teach us the way,
A nest we will build us up here.
"It's a thing that's close arched overhead,
With a hole made to creep out and in;
We, my bird, might make just such a bed 15
If we only knew how to begin."
To the magpie soon all the birds went,
And in modest terms made their request,
That she would be pleased to consent
To teach them to build up a nest.
She replied: "I will show you the way,
So observe everything that I do:
First, two sticks 'cross each other I lay—" 5
"To be sure," said the crow, "why I knew
"It must be begun with two sticks,
And I thought that they crossed should be."
Said the pie, "Then some straw and moss mix
In the way you now see done by me." 10
"Oh, yes, certainly," said the jackdaw,
"That must follow, of course, I have thought;
Though I never before building saw,
I guessed that without being taught."
"More moss, more straw, and feathers, I place 15
In this manner," continued the pie.
"Yes, no doubt, madam, that is the case;
Though no builder myself, so thought I."
Whatever she taught them beside,
In his turn every bird of them said,
Though the nest-making art he ne'er tried, 5
He had just such a thought in his head.
Still the pie went on showing her art,
Till the nest she had built up halfway;
She no more of her skill would impart,
But in her anger went fluttering away. 10
And this speech in their hearing she made,
As she perched o'er their heads on a tree:
"If ye all were well skilled in my trade,
Pray, why came ye to learn it of me?"
MARGARET VANDEGRIFT
America, 1845-
The Sandman
The rosy clouds float overhead,
The sun is going down;
And now the sandman's gentle tread
Comes stealing through the town.
"White sand, white sand," he softly cries, 5
And as he shakes his hand,
Straightway there lies on babies' eyes
His gift of shining sand.
Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown,
As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town,10
From sunny beaches far away—
Yes, in another land—
He gathers up at break of day
His store of shining sand.
No tempests beat that shore remote, 15
No ships may sail that way;
His little boat alone may float
Within that lovely bay.
Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown,
As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.
He smiles to see the eyelids close 5
Above the happy eyes;
And every child right well he knows,—
Oh, he is very wise!
But if, as he goes through the land,
A naughty baby cries, 10
His other hand takes dull gray sand
To close the wakeful eyes.
Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown,
As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.
So when you hear the sandman's song 15
Sound through the twilight sweet,
Be sure you do not keep him long
A-waiting on the street.
Lie softly down, dear little head,
Rest quiet, busy hands,
Till, by your bed his good night said,
He strews the shining sands. 5
Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown,
As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.