The little bird sat on a slender limb,
Upward swinging,
And though wind and rain were rough with him,
Still kept singing.
"O little bird, quick seek out your nest!"
I could not keep from calling;
"The bleak winds tear your tender breast,
Your tiny feet are falling."
"More need for song,
When things go wrong,
I was not meant for crying;
No fear for me,"
He piped with glee,
"My wings were made for flying."
- Springs in the Valley, June 9.
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