BUSY BIRDS.
Reading edition
BY MARCIA BRADBURY JORDAN.
A broad green marsh, with sullen pools Of brackish water here and there, With mounds of hay on wooden piles, And squares of yellow flowers like tiles, And swamp-rosemary everywhere. The straight road stretches, gray with dust, From distant pine-trees to the hill; The warm breath of an autumn day Prevails, and with its languid sway Keeps every little song-bird still. But all along the wire line That telegrams unnumbered brings, Small chirping birds are perched secure, With down-bent head and mien demure, And gray brown lightly folded wings. And do you ask, dear girls and boys, What calls these flatterers from home, Why restlessly they care to roam Far from the foliage-guarded nest? A new idea has come to me; I wonder if you will agree To what I'm going to suggest. When in some quite mysterious way A trifling fault strikes mamma's ears, I'm confident you must have heard Of that communicative bird Who's always telling all he hears. A little bird told me, she says, Of what I never should suspect. Suppose these listening songsters light Upon the wires there in sight To get the latest news direct! If they're the gossips of bird land, Reporters for the "Night-hawk Press," Then very likely they indulge In other meddling, and divulge The tiny secrets so few guess. They hover near the open door In summer; past the eaves they dart, And very likely understand When any hidden mischief's planned, And straightway hasten to impart, To those, they think it may concern, Their interesting items. Why, I seem to see their bright eyes shine, Their cunning heads sideways incline Inquisitively, full of joy. The only way I know is this— To always try to do so well That when the busy birds appear To carry secrets through the air, They won't have anything to tell Except those messages that bless Obedience and truthfulness.
A LITTLE PHILOSOPHER.
