BIRD-LORE

Peacocks sweep the fairies' rooms; They use their folded tails for brooms; But fairy dust is brighter far Than any mortal colours are, And all about their tails it clings In strange designs of rounds and rings: And that is why they strut about And proudly spread their feathers out.

The Cuckoo is a tell-tale, A mischief-making bird; He flies to East, he flies to West And whispers into every nest The wicked things he's heard; He loves to spread his naughty lies, He laughs about it as he flies: "Cuckoo," he cries, "cuckoo, cuckoo, It's true, it's true."

And when the fairies catch him His busy wings they dock, They shut him up for evermore (He may not go beyond the door) Inside a wooden clock; Inside a wooden clock he cowers And has to tell the proper hours— "Cuckoo," he cries, "cuckoo, cuckoo, It's true, it's true."

High in the elm-trees sit the rooks, Or flit about with busy looks And solemn, ceaseless caws. Small wonder they are so intent, They are the fairies' Parliament— They make the fairy laws.

They never seem to stop all day, And you can hear from far away Their busy chatter-chat. They work so very hard indeed You'd wonder that the fairies need So many laws as that.

The robin is the fairies' page; They keep him neatly dressed For country service or for town In dapper livery of brown And little scarlet vest.

On busy errands all day long He hurries to and fro With watchful eyes and nimble wings— There are not very many things The robin doesn't know.

And he can tell you, if he will, The latest fairy news: The quaint adventures of the King, And whom the Queen is visiting, And where she gets her shoes.

And lately, when the fairy Court Invited me to tea, He stood behind the Royal Chair; And here I solemnly declare, When he discovered I was there. That robin winked at me.

The kindly cock is the fairies' friend, He warns them when their revels must end; He never forgets to give the word, For the cock is a thoroughly punctual bird.

And since he grieves that he never can fly. Like all the other birds, up in the sky, The fairies put him now and again High on a church for a weather-vane.

Little for sun or for rain he cares; He turns about with the proudest airs And chuckles with joy as the clouds go past To think he is up in the sky at last.

The Grouse that lives on the moorland wide Is filled with a most ridiculous pride; He thinks that it all belongs to him, And every one else must obey his whim. When the queer wee folk who live on the moors Come joyfully leaping out of their doors To frisk about on the warm sweet heather Laughing and chattering all together, He looks askance at their rollicking play And calls to them in the angriest way: "You're a feather-brained, foolish, frivolous pack, Go back, you rascally imps, go back!"

But little enough they heed his shout, Over the rocks they tumble about; They chase each other over the ling; They kick their heels in the heather and sing: "Oho, Mr. Grouse, you'd best beware, Or some fine day, if you don't take care, The witch who lives in the big brown bog With a wise old weasel, a rat and a frog, Will come a-capering over the fell And put you under a horrible spell; Your feathers will moult and your voice will crack— Go back, you silly old bird, go back!"