I was surprised to discover, in my close attention to them, that although early to rise, robins are by no means early to bed. Long after every feather was supposed to be at rest for the night, I would sit out and listen to the gossip, the last words, the scraps of song,—different in every individual robin, yet all variations on the theme, “Be cheery,”—and often the sharp “He he he he he!” so like a girl’s laugh, out of the shadowy depths of the maple.
One of the most interesting entertainments of the later days was to hear the young birds’ music lesson. In the early morning the father would place himself in the thickest part of the tree, not as usual in plain sight on the top, and with his pupil near him would begin, “Cheery! cheery! be cheery!” in a loud, clear voice; and then would follow a feeble, wavering, uncertain attempt to copy the song. Again papa would chant the first strain, and baby would pipe out his funny notes. This was kept up, till in a surprisingly short time, after much daily practice both with the copy and without, I could hardly tell father from son.
The baby robin taken apart from his kind is an interesting study. Before he can fairly balance himself on his uncertain, wavering little legs, or lay claim to more than the promise of a tail, he displays the brave, self-reliant spirit of his race. He utters loud, defiant calls, pecks boldly at an intruding hand, and stands—as well as he is able—staring one full in the face without blinking, asserting by his attitude and by every bristling feather that he is a living being; and, in the depths of your soul, you cannot gainsay him. If you have already, in his helpless infancy, made him captive, the blush of shame arises, and you involuntarily throw wide the prison-doors.
—Olive Thorne Miller.
By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston.
THE FOUR-LEAVED SHAMROCK
I’ll seek a four-leaved Shamrock in all the fairy dells,
And if I find the charmed leaves, oh, how I’ll weave my spells!
I would not waste my magic mite on diamond, pearl, or gold,
For treasure tires the weary sense—such triumph is but cold;
But I would play th’ enchanter’s part in casting bliss around—
Oh, not a tear, nor aching heart, should in the world be found.
To worth I would give honor!—I’d dry the mourner’s tears,
And to the pallid lip recall the smile of happier years,
And hearts that had been long estranged, and friends that had grown cold,
Should meet again—like parted streams—and mingle as of old!
Oh! thus I’d play th’ enchanter’s part, thus scatter bliss around,
And not a tear, nor aching heart, should in the world be found!
The heart that had been mourning, o’er vanished dreams of love,
Should see them all returning—like Noah’s faithful dove;
And Hope should launch her blessed bark on Sorrow’s darkening sea,
And Misery’s children have an ark and saved from sinking be.
Oh! thus I’d play th’ enchanter’s part, thus scatter bliss around,
And not a tear, nor aching heart, should in the world be found!
—Samuel Lover.