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Vol. 11 



April, 191/ 



No. 4 



The Robin 



My old Welsh neighbor over the way 

 Crept slowly out in the sun of spring, 

 Pushed from her ears the locks of grey, 

 And listened to the robins sing. 



Her grandson, playing at marbles, stopped, 

 And, cruel in sport as boys will be, 



Tossed a stone at the bird, who hopped 

 From bough to bough in the apple-tree. 



"Nay!" said the grandmother, "have you 

 not heard, 



My poor, bad boy! of the fiery pit, 

 And how drop by drop, this merciful bird 



Carries the water that quenches it ? 



"He brings cool dew in his little bill, 



And lets it fall on the souls of sin : 

 You can see the mark on his red breast still 



Of fires that scorch as he drops it in. 



"My poor Bron rhuddyn! my breast-burned bird! 



Singing so sweetly from limb to limb, 

 Very dear to the heart of our Lord 



Is he who pities the lost like Him!" 



"Amen!" I said to the beautiful myth; 



"Sing bird of God, in my heart as well: 

 Each good thought is a drop wherewith 



To cool and lessen the fires of hell. 



"Prayers of love like raindrops fall, 



Tears of pity are cooling dew, 

 And dear to the heart of our Lord are all 

 Who suffer like Him in the good they do!" 



Whittier. 

 171 



