In the joy of his nature he frisks with a bound

To the topmost twigs, and then down to the ground; Then up again like a wingèd thing,

And from tree to tree with a vaulting spring;

Then he sits up aloft, and looks waggish and queer,

As if he would say, "Ay, follow me here!"

And then he grows pettish, and stamps his foot;

And then independently cracks his nut;

But small as he is, he knows he may want,

In the bleak winter weather, when food is scant:
So he finds a hole in an old tree's core,

And there makes his nest, and lays up his store;

Then when cold winter comes, and the trees are bare,
When the white snow is falling, and keen is the air,
He heeds it not, as he sits by himself

In his warm little nest, with his nuts on his shelf.
O wise little squirrel! no wonder that he,

In the green summer woods, is as blithe as can be!

Where the breath of the simoom is hot in the air;
To the desert, where never a green blade grew,
Where never its shadow a broad tree threw,
Where sands rise up, and in columns are wheeled

By the winds of the desert, like hosts in the field;
Where the wild ass sends forth a lone, dissonant bray,

And the herds of the wild horse speed on through the day—

The creatures unbroken, with manes flying free,

Like the steeds of the whirlwind, if such there may be.

Yes, there in the desert, like armies for war,

The flocks of the Ostrich are seen from afar,

Speeding on, speeding on, o'er the desolate plain,
Whilst the fleet-mounted Arab pursueth in vain!

But 'tis joy to the traveller who toils through that land,
The
egg of the Ostrich to find in the sand;

For the egg of an Ostrich sustaineth him wholly,
When weary with travel he journeyeth slowly
To the well of the desert, and finds it at last,
Seven days' journey from that he hath passed.

Or go to the Caffre-land,-what if you meet
A print, in the sand, of the strong lion's feet!
He is down in the thicket, asleep in his lair;
Come on to the desert, the Ostrich is there-

There, there! where the zebras are flying in haste,
The herd of the Ostrich comes down o'er the waste-
Half-running, half-flying-what progress they make !
Twang the bow! not the arrow their flight can o'ertake!

Strong bird of the wild, thou art gone like the wind,
And thou leavest the cloud of thy speeding behind.
Fare thee well! in thy desolate region, farewell,-
With the giraffe and lion we leave thee to dwell!