OUR FRIENDS, THE BIRDS. 95 
He comes in March, when winds are strong, 
And snow returns to hide the earth; 
But still he warms his heart with mirth 
And waits for May. He lingers long 
While flowers fade; and every day 
Repeats his small contented lay; 
As if to say, we need not fear 
The season’s change if love is here 
With ‘Sweet—sweet—sweet— 
very merry cheer.” 
He does not wear a Joseph’s-coat 
Of many colors, smart and gay; 
His suit is quaker brown and gray 
With three dark patches at his throat. 
And yet of all the well-dressed throng 
Not one can sing so brave a song; 
It makes the pride of books appear 
A vain and foolish thing, to hear 
His ‘‘Sweet 
sweet—sweet— 
very merry cheer.” 
A lofty place he does not love, 
But sits by choice and well at ease, 
In hedges, and in little trees 
That stretch their slender arms above 
The meadow-brook; and there he 
sings 
Till all the field with pleasure rings; ¢ 
And so he tells in every ear, 
The lowliest home to heaven is 
near 
In ‘“‘Sweet—sweet—sweet— 
very merry cheer.” 
