OUR COUNTRY LIFE 



Her sight is short, she comes quite near; 



A foot to me 's a mile to her; 



And she is known as Jenny Wren, 



The smallest bird in England. When 



I heard that little bird at first, 



Methought her frame would surely burst 



With earnest song. Oft had I seen 



Her running under leaves so green, 



Or in the grass so fresh and wet, 



As though her wings she would forget. 



And, seeing this, I said to her — 



"My pretty runner, you prefer 



To be a thing to run unheard 



Through leaves and grass, and not a bird !" 



'T was then she burst, to prove me wrong, 



Into a sudden storm of song 



So very loud and earnest, I 



Feared she would break her heart and die. 



"Nay, nay," I laughed, "be you no thing 



To run unheard, sweet scold, but sing!" 



O I could hear your voice near me, 



Above the din in that oak tree, 



When almost all the twigs on top 



Had starlings singing without stop. 



July 28. A rainy dawn. I hear against a fugue of 

 falling drops the song sparrow's soft cadences; the 

 brisk trill of the busy wren encouraging his mate in her 

 efforts to stop those pleading mouths; the whir of the 



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