TO A WHITE-EYED VIREO.

Up there among the maple’s leaves, One morning bright in May, A tiny bird I chanced to spy, And plainly heard him say: “Sweet, who-are-you?”

“Dost call to me, in words so fair, O little friend?” I cried; “Or to some feathered dame up there?” For answer he replied: “Sweet, do you hear?”

O yes, I hear you, little bird, All clad in leafy hue; And I in turn, would like to ask The question, “Who are you?”

But you might deem the question vain, And bid me note your size; The shading of your dainty coat; The color of your eyes.

For there I shall my answer find. Shall you be answered, too? Will your wee feathered love reply, When asked, “Sweet, who-are-you?” —Annie Wakely Jackson.