THE LINNET and THE SISKIN i^ 



On the crumbling walls of the orchard. 

 Where hangs the wealth of the broom. 

 He loves to sit in the scented breath 

 Of the apple trees in bloom. 



He hides the pranks of his springtide love 

 And his nest with its chattering brood, 

 In the silent depths of an ancient wood, 

 Whore he dwells in solitude. 



r 



Lost in the sky, o'er the branches high 

 Of even the topmo.st tree, / 



Singing so clearly, singing so merrily. 

 High in the air soars he ! 



