A FOOLISH BIRD.

An ostrich o'er the desert wide, With upturned beak and jaunty stride, In stately, self-sufficient pride, One day was gently roaming. When—dreadful sound to ostrich ears, To ostrich mind the worst of fears— Our desert champion thinks he hears The dreaded hunter coming. Ill-fated bird! He might have fled: Those legs of his would soon have sped That flossy tail—that lofty head— Far, far away from danger. But—fatal error of his race— In sandy bank he hid his face, And thought by this to evade the chase Of the ostrich-bagging ranger. So he who, like the ostrich vain, Is ign'rant, and would so remain, Of what folks do, it's very plain In folly's road he's walking. For if in sand you hide your head Just to escape that which you dread, And, seeing not, say danger's fled: 'Tis worse than childish talking.