OUR FRIENDS, THE BIRDS. 39 
corner of the piazza, turned his back as before, and 
coolly ignoring his friends went on with his breakfast. 
The other two stood looking at each other for a little 
while and then flew away. It was very funny. None 
of them seemed to be the least bit out of temper, but I 
imagined they were saying to each other, ‘How selfish 
he is.’ I sawit several times apparently pecking at 
the same piece of bread. 
“T have seen them fly at other birds,” said a boy. 
“May be they are only amiable among themselves.” 
“That would be different from some folks,’ said 
“Student.” 
“Time is nearly up,” said the teacher. “I will 
recite D. S. Pickley’s verses about the Sparrow:” 
You may talk about the Nightingale, th’ Thrush ’r Medder Lark, 
’R any other singin’ bird that comes from Noah’s ark; 
But of all feathered things that fly, from Turkey-buzzard down, 
Give me the little Sparrer with his modest coat o’ brown. 
T’ll admit thet in th’ springtime, when the trees are gettin’ green, 
When again the Robin Readbreast ‘nd th’ Bluebird first ’re seen; 
When the Bobolink ’nd Blackbird from th’ southland re-appear, 
'Nd the Crow comes back to show us thet th’ spring is really 
here— 
I'll admit thet in the springtime, when the groves with music 
ring, 
Natur’ handicaps the Sparrer; he was never made to sing; 
But he sounds th’ Maker’s praises in his meek ’nd lowly way; 
And tho’ other birds come back at times, Ze never goes away. 
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