LITTLE brown sparrows upon the tree, 

Sweetly chirping in your glee, 

Where will you get your breakfast, this morn? 

"Tu-wee! To-wee! 

Tu-wee! To-wee!" 

Frozen the meadows, this wintry day, 

Not a worm nor a bug do I see. 

Where will you get your dinner, at noon? 

"Tu-wee! To-wee! 

Tu-wee! To-wee!" 

Not a crumb anywhere, nor a leaf; 

Stripped of fruit is every tree. 

Where will you get your supper, at night?

"Tu-wee! To-wee! 

Tu-wee! To-wee!" 

Then with a rush, with a whir of wings, 

Every breast from worry free, 

Rising they soar, and each one doth sing, 

"My Heavenly Father, 

He feedeth me!" 

—Our Little Ones.