THE FLYING HOURS

Twelve little birds fly by in a row— Bright little birds are they— Shining and free, and as blue as can be, And these are the hours of the day; The sun shines warmly across their wings As they hurry their way along; And now and again, in their joy of things, They carol a daytime song. Twelve little owls fly by in a row, Silent and dark their flight; Gray little things, with shadowy wings, And these are the hours of the night; But the last of them all, as he hovers low, Is flushed with a radiant pink; This is the good little sunrise owl; I like him the best, I think.