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THE SPARROW 



Let skies be cloudy or skies be blue. 

 Little brown sparrow, away go you. 

 Ever in search of food or fun. 

 Come summer or winter, rain or sun. 



Boughs of lilac whereon to rest 

 April spreads when you build your nest ; 

 Autumn feeds you with golden corn. 

 And berries ripe on the wayside thorn. 



Winter comes with its frost and snow ; 

 Waters may freeze and winds may blow. 

 Yet little you reck, and nought you rue. 

 For every hand has a crumb for you. 



Through sunshine to-morrow and storm to-day 

 You go, like a friar of orders gray. 

 Finding, wherever j-our fancy leads, 

 A table spread for the wanderer's needs. 



