IT was a wee bit housie,

But shaped with deftest care,

Of twisted twigs, a feather or two,

A scrap of cloth of doubtful hue,

And a bit of tangled hair.

And the merry little artist,

Who twittered overhead,

Viewed her work with happy pride,

Fluttering about from side to side

Around the pretty bed,

Which held a tender promise

Of something fair to be;

And she poured a song,

The whole day long,

Over the pale eggs three.

Never a fear of the morrow

Clouded her hope so glad;

Never a doubt in the little brown breast,

As she gaily trimmed the dainty nest

With such things as she had.

Oh! Happy little warbler,

In thy blithe note is blent.

A song of trust from day to day,

And I learn of thee, as I go my way,

A lesson of sweet content.


Lucy Randolph / leming.