THE BIRD-BATH By MADELEINE NIGHTINGALE

Under the quince-tree’s shade, away

From garden-paths—half-green, half-grey—

The bird-bath stands, and dipping in it

Sparrow and blackbird, thrush and linnet,

So fierce they flutter wide and far

Scattered the silver splashes are;

You’d hardly think there left could be

One single drop of little me.

And yet when every bird that will

Has dipped and splashed and drunk his fill,

Never I go, with either hand

To hold the bowl and tip-toe stand

And peep, but there with leaves and sky

All mixed—there always still am I.

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The bird-bath.

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