THE RED BREAST OF THE ROBIN

AN IRISH LEGEND

Of all the merry little birds that live up in the tree,
And carol from the sycamore and chestnut,
The prettiest little gentleman that dearest is to me
Is the one in coat of brown and scarlet waist-coat.
It's cockit little Robin,

And his head he keeps a-bobbin'!

Of all the other pretty fowls I'd choose him;
For he sings so sweetly still

Through his tiny slender bill,

With a little patch of red upon his bosom.

When the frost is in the air and the snow upon the ground,
To other little birdies so bewilderin',

Picking up the crumbs near the window he is found,
Singing Christmas stories to the children:

Of how two tender babes

Were left in woodland glades

By a cruel man who took 'em there to lose 'em,
But Bobby saw the crime,

(He was watching all the time,)

And he blushed a perfect crimson on his bosom.

When the changing leaves of Autumn around us thickly

fall,

And everything seems sorrowful and saddening,
Robin may be heard on the corner of a wall

Singing what is solacing and gladdening.
And sure, from what I've heard,

He's God's own little bird,

And sings to those in grief just to amuse 'em,
But once he sat forlorn

On a cruel crown of thorn,

And the blood it stained his pretty little bosom.

Unknown

A Legend of the Northland 135

A LEGEND OF THE NORTHLAND

AWAY, away in the Northland,

Where the hours of the day are few,
And the nights are so long in winter
That they cannot sleep them through;

Where they harness the swift reindeer
To the sledges, when it snows;
And the children look like bear's cubs
In their funny, furry clothes:

They tell them a curious story-
I don't believe 'tis true;
And yet you may learn a lesson
If I tell the tale to you.

Once, when the good Saint Peter
Lived in the world below,
And walked about it, preaching,
Just as he did, you know,

He came to the door of a cottage,
In traveling round the earth,

Where a little woman was making cakes,
And baking them on the hearth;

And being faint with fasting,

For the day was almost done,

He asked her, from her store of cakes,
To give him a single one.

So she made a very little cake,

But as it baking lay,

She looked at it, and thought it seemed

Too large to give away.

Therefore she kneaded another,

And still a smaller one;

But it looked, when she turned it over,

As large as the first had done.

Then she took a tiny scrap of dough,
And rolled and rolled it flat;

And baked it thin as a wafer-
But she couldn't part with that.

For she said, "My cakes that seem too small
When I eat of them myself,

Are yet too large to give away."

So she put them on the shelf.

Then good Saint Peter grew angry,
For he was hungry and faint;
And surely such a woman

Was enough to provoke a saint.

And he said, "You are far too selfish
To dwell in a human form,
To have both food and shelter,
And fire to keep you warm.

"Now, you shall build as the birds do,
And shall get your scanty food
By boring, and boring, and boring,
All day in the hard, dry wood."

Then up she went through the chimney,
Never speaking a word,

And out of the top flew a woodpecker,
For she was changed to a bird.

She had a scarlet cap on her head,

And that was left the same,

But all the rest of her clothes were burned

Black as a coal in the flame.

And every country school-boy

Has seen her in the wood,

Where she lives in the trees till this very day,

Boring and boring for food.

And this is the lesson she teaches:

Live not for yourself alone,

Lest the needs you will not pity

Shall one day be your own.

The Cricket's Story

137

Give plenty of what is given to you,

Listen to pity's call;

Don't think the little you give is great,
And the much you get is small.

Now, my little boy, remember that,

And try to be kind and good,

When you see the woodpecker's sooty dress,

And see her scarlet hood.

You mayn't be changed to a bird though you live

As selfishly as you can;

But you will be changed to a smaller thing

A mean and selfish man.

Phabe Cary [1824-1871]

THE CRICKET'S STORY

THE high and mighty lord of Glendare,
The owner of acres both broad and fair,
Searched, once on a time, his vast domains,
His deep, green forest, and yellow plains,
For some rare singer, to make complete
The studied charms of his country-seat;
But found, for all his pains and labors,
No sweeter songster than had his neighbors.

Ah, what shall my lord of the manor do?

He pondered the day and the whole night through.
He called on the gentry of hill-top and dale;
And at last on Madame the Nightingale,-

Inviting, in his majestical way,

Her pupils to sing at his grand soiree,

That perchance among them my lord might find

Some singer to whom his heart inclined.

What wonder, then, when the evening came,

And the castle gardens were all aflame

With the many curious lights that hung
O'er the ivied porches, and flared among
The grand old trees and the banners proud,
That many a heart beat high and loud,

While the famous choir of Glendare Bog,
Established and led by the Brothers Frog,
Sat thrumming as hoarsely as they were able,
In front of the manager's mushroom table!

The overture closed with a crash-then, hark!
Across the stage comes the sweet-voiced Lark.
She daintily sways, with an airy grace,
And flutters a bit of gossamer lace,
While the leafy alcove echoes and thrills
With her liquid runs and lingering trills.
Miss Goldfinch came next, in her satin gown,
And shaking her feathery flounces down,
With much expression and feeling sung
Some "Oh's" and "Ah's" in a foreign tongue;
While to give the affair a classic tone,
Miss Katydid rendered a song of her own,
In which cach line closed as it had begun,
With some wonderful deed which she had done.
Then the Misses Sparrow, so prim and set,
Twittered and chirped through a long duet;
And poor little Wren, who tried with a will,
But who couldn't tell "Heber" from "Ortonville,”
Unconscious of sarcasm, piped away

And courtesied low o'er a huge bouquet

Of crimson clover-heads, culled by the dozen,
By some brown-coated, plebeian cousin.

you

But should have heard the red Robin sing
His English ballad, "Come, beautiful Spring!"
And Master Owlet's melodious tunc,

"O, meet me under the silvery moon!"

Then, as flighty Miss Humming-bird didn't care
To sing for the high and mighty Glendare,
The close of the evening's performance fell
To the fair young Nightingale, Mademoiselle.
Ah! the wealth of cach wonderful note
That came from the depths of her tiny throat!
She carolled, she trilled, and she held her breath,
Till she seemed to hang at the point of death: