THE STUFFED BIRD.
OUT through the window you wish it would fly
And then come back to you by and by;
Ruffle its feathers and flutter its wings,
And sing such a song as the bobolink sings?
Its plumage is splendid, and yet you are tired
Of the treasure at first so greatly admired,
Perched motionless, though with a semblance flight,
On the self-same twig from morning till night?
And then come back to you by and by;
Ruffle its feathers and flutter its wings,
And sing such a song as the bobolink sings?
Its plumage is splendid, and yet you are tired
Of the treasure at first so greatly admired,
Perched motionless, though with a semblance flight,
On the self-same twig from morning till night?
And birds are so restless, so eager, so wise,
So rapid the glance of their bright little eyes!
How they tremble, and quiver, and flutter, and dart,
As if they were nothing but wings and a heart!
Why, verily, if it were left me to choose,
This tropical beauty I'd willingly lose
If suddenly, swiftly, one rapturous thrill
This bright little throat with a song-burst would fill,
So rapid the glance of their bright little eyes!
How they tremble, and quiver, and flutter, and dart,
As if they were nothing but wings and a heart!
Why, verily, if it were left me to choose,
This tropical beauty I'd willingly lose
If suddenly, swiftly, one rapturous thrill
This bright little throat with a song-burst would fill,
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