Upon the apple-bough, and flutters down
Stealing, with oft check’d and uplifted foot
And watchful gaze bent quickly either side,
Toward the fall’n wealth of food around the mouth
Of the light paper pouch upon the earth.
But, fearful of our motions, off he flies,
And stoops upon the grub the spade has thrown
Loose from its den beside the wounded root.
Days pass along. The pattering shower falls down
And then the warming sunshine. Tiny clifts