LITTLE BOY BLUE, 



Boys and girls, don't you think 

 that is a pretty name ? I came 

 from the warm south, where I 

 went' last winter, to tell you that 

 Springtime is nearly here. 



When I sing, the buds and 

 flowers and grass all begin to 

 whisper to one another, "Spring- 

 time is coming for we heard the 

 Bluebird say so," and then they 

 peep out to see the warm sun- 

 shine. I perch beside them and 

 tell them of my long journey 

 from the south and how I knew 

 just when to tell them to come 

 out of their warm winter cradles. 

 I am of the same blue color as 

 the violet that shows her pretty 

 face when I sing, "Summer is 

 coming, and Springtime is here." 



I do not like the cities for 

 they are black and noisy and 

 full of those troublesome birds 

 called English Sparrows. I 

 take my pretty mate and out in 

 the beautiful country we find a 

 home. We build a nest of 



twigs, grass and hair, in a box 

 that the farmer puts up for us 

 near his barn. 



Sometimes we build in a hole 

 in some old tree and soon there 

 are tiny eggs in the nest. I 

 sing to my mate and to the good 

 people who own the barn. I 

 heard the farmer say one day, 

 "Isn't it nice to hear the Blue- 

 bird sing ? He must be very 

 happy." And I am, too, for by 

 this time there are four or five 

 little ones in the nest. 



Little Bluebirds are like little 

 boys— they are always hungry. 

 We work hard to find enough 

 for them to eat. We feed them 

 nice fat worms and bugs, and 

 when their little wings are 

 strong enough, we teach them 

 how to fly. Soon they are large 

 enough to hunt their own food, 

 and can take care of themselves. 



The summer passes, and when 

 we feel the breath of winter we 

 go south again, for we do not 

 like the cold. 



THE BLUE BIRD, 



I know the song that the Bluebird is singing 

 Out in the apple tree, where he is swinging. 

 Brave little fellow! the skies may be dreary, 

 Nothing cares he while his heart is so cheery. 

 Hark! how the music leaps out from his throat, 

 Hark! was there ever so merry a note? 



Listen a while, and you'll hear what he's saying, 

 Up in the apple tree swinging and swaying. 

 "Dear little blossoms down under the snow, 

 You must be weary of winter, I know ; 

 Hark! while I sing you a message of cheer, 

 Summer is coming, and springtime is here!" 



"Dear little snow-drop ! I pray you arise ; 

 Bright yellow crocus! come open your eyes ; 

 Sweet little violets, hid from the cold, 

 Put on our mantles of purple and gold ; 

 Daffodils ! daffodils ! say, do you hear, 

 Summer is coming ! and springtime is here!" 

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