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Quoth the boy, "My senses whirl;
Of the wisdom of a girl,
Or the feelings of a bird. Pretty Mrs. Solomon,
Tell me what you reckon on
If I wring their necks anon,
When my daily task is done.
They are very fond and kind. Every change of song and voice
Plainly proveth to my soul They can suffer and rejoice."
And the little robin bird
(Nice brown, black and crimson breast)
All the conversation heard,
Sitting, trembling in his nest.
"What a world," he cried, "of bliss,
MY BROTHER JIM.
I loved him then, because he was
The fear of getting soundly lickedSometimes I would, without a doubt,
Go much too far and theu get kicked
Whenever I got in a fuss
I'd always call for brother Jim;
How very proud was I, and bold,
To keep the sun out of my eyes)
That boy get polished in a trice! Indeed, such was my modesty, That I would much prefer that he Should win the honor and renown Of every fight I had on hand
Than do't myself; the loss, I own,
Was something that I well could stand.
And he, I'm very proud to note,
I used to let him saw the wood,
Allowed him all the fires to make;
I never growled because he did
I used to let him take my place
In staying home of nights, and days
In which there was no school to bother;
I shared his joys and cakes with him—
ROBERT OF LINCOLN.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
Merrily swinging on briar and weed,
Near to the nest of his little dame,
Robert of Lincoln is telling his name—
Spink, spank, spink,
Snug and safe is this nest of ours,
Robert of Lincoln is gaily dressed,
Wearing a bright, black wedding coat; White are his shoulders and white his crest, Hear him call in his merry note,
Look what a nice new coat is mine!
Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife,
Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passes at home a patient life,
Broods in the grass while her husband sings,
Brood, kind creature, you need not fear
Modest and shy as a nun is she;
One weak chirp is her only note; Braggart, and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat, "Bob-o-link, bob-o-link.
Spink, spank, spink,
Never was I afraid of man,
Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can,
Six white eggs on a bed of hay,
Flecked with purple, a pretty sight;
Nice good wife, that never goes out,
Soon as the little ones chip the shell
This new life is likely to be
Hard for a gay young fellow like me,
Robert of Lincoln at length is made
Nobody knows but my mate and I
When you can pipe that merry old strain,
THE AFTERNOON NAP.
CHARLES G. EASTMAN.
[Tenderly and expressively.]
The farmer sat in his easy chair,
Smoking his pipe of clay,
While his hale old wife, with busy care,
A sweet little girl, with fine blue eyes,
The old man laid his hand on her head,
He thought how often her mother, dead,
And the tear stole down from his half shut eye:
"Don't smoke!" said the child; "how it makes you cry."