Bob-o-link! Bob-o-link!
Now what do you think?
Who stole a nest away
From the plum-tree to-day?
Coo, coo! coo, coo! coo, coo!
Let me speak a word too.
Who stole that pretty nest
From little Robin Redbreast?
Not I, said the sheep; oh, no!
I wouldn't treat a poor bird so;
I gave the wool the nest to line,
But the nest was none of mine.
Baa, baa, said the sheep; oh, no!
I wouldn't treat a poor
bird so.
To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!
Will you listen to me?
Who stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made?
Bob-o-link! Bob-o-link!
Now what do you think?
Who stole a nest away
From the plum-tree to-day?
Coo, coo! coo, coo! coo, coo!
Let me speak a word too,
Who stole that pretty nest
From little Robin Redbreast?
Caw, caw! cried the crow,
I should like to know
What thief took away
A bird's-nest to-day.
Chuck, chuck! said the hen,
Don't ask me again;
Why, I haven't a chick
Would do such a trick.
We all gave her a feather,
And she wove them together;
I'd scorn to intrude
On her and her brood.
Chuck, chuck! said the hen,
Don't ask me again.
Chirr-a-whirr! chirr-a-whirr !
We will make a great stir!
Let us find out his name,
And all cry, for shame!
"I would not rob a bird,"
Said little Mary Green;
"I think I never heard
Of anything so mean."
"Tis very cruel too,"
Said little Alice Neal;
"I wonder if he knew
How sad the bird would feel?"
A little boy hung down his head,
And went and hid behind the bed;
For he stole that pretty nest
From little Robin Redbreast;
And he felt so full of shame,
He did not like to tell his name.
THE SPRING WALK.
WE had a pleasant walk to-day
Over the meadows and far away,
Across the bridge by the water-mill,
By the wood-side, and up the hill;
And if you listen to what I say,
I'll tell you what we saw to-day.
Amid a hedge, where the first leaves
Were peeping from their sheaths so sly,
We saw four eggs within a nest,
And they were blue as a summer sky.
An elder-branch dipped in the brook,
We wondered why it moved, and found
A silken-haired smooth water-rat
Nibbling, and swimming round and round.
Where daisies opened to the sun,
In a broad meadow, green and white,
The lambs were racing eagerly—
We never saw a prettier sight.
We saw upon the shady banks
Long rows of golden flowers shine,
And first mistook for buttercups
The star-shaped yellow celandine.
Anemones and primroses,
And the blue violets of Spring,
We found, while listening by a hedge
To hear a merry ploughman sing.
And from the earth the plough turned up There came a sweet, refreshing smell, Such as the lily of the vale
Sends forth from many a woodland dell.
We saw the yellow wall-flower wave
Upon a mouldering castle-wall,
And then we watched the busy rooks
Among the ancient elm-trees tall.
And leaning from the old stone bridge
Below we saw our shadows lie,
And through the gloomy arches watched
The swift and fearless swallows fly.
We heard the speckle-breasted lark
As it sang somewhere out of sight,
And tried to find it, but the sky
Was filled with clouds of dazzling light.
We saw young rabbits near the wood,
And heard a pheasant's wings go "whirr,"
And then we saw a squirrel leap
From an old oak-tree to a fir.
And many pretty birds we saw,
Which had come o'er the stormy main,
To build their nests, and rear their young,
And sing in our old woods again.
We came back by the village fields,
A pleasant walk it was across 'em,
For all behind the houses lay
The orchards red and white with blossom.
Were I to tell you all I saw,
I'm sure that it would take me hours;
For the whole landscape was alive
With bees and birds, and buds and flowers.
THE DYING BOY.
It must be sweet in childhood to give back
The spirit to its MAKER, ere the heart
Has grown familiar with the paths of sin,
And sown- -to garner up its bitter fruits.
I knew a boy, whose infant feet had trod
Upon the blossoms of some seven springs,
And when the eighth came round, and call'd him out To revel in its light, he turned away,
And sought his chamber to lie down and die.
'Twas night; he summon'd his accustom'd friends, And, on this wise, bestow'd his last request:
"Mother, I'm dying now!
There's a deep suffocation in my breast,
As if some heavy hand my bosom press'd;
And on my brow
"I feel the cold sweat stand;
My lips grow dry and tremulous, and my breath
Comes feebly up. Oh, tell me, is this death?
Mother, your hand—
"Here-lay it on my wrist,
And place the other thus, beneath my head,
And say, sweet mother, say, when I am dead,
Shall I be miss'd?
"Never beside your knee
Shall I kneel down again at night to pray,
Nor with morning wake and sing the lay
You taught to me.
"Oh! at the time of prayer,
When you look round and see a vacant seat,
You will not wait then for my coming feet--
You'll miss me there.
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