My babies will never feel the showers,
For rain can’t get through these feathers of ours.
Snug under my wings they will cuddle and creep,
The happiest babies awake or asleep,”
Said the robin-mother, flying away
After more of the sticks and mud and clay.
Under the apple tree somebody sighed,
“Ah me, the blunder of folly and pride!
The roughest small house of mud or clay
Might be a sweet home for a summer day,