242 THE SONG, 
a handful of grain. If he sees friendly faces, he will enter the room ; 
he is not insensible to warmth ; cheered by this brief breath of 
summer, the poor little one returns much stronger into the 
winter. 
Toussenel is justly indignant that no poet has sung of the robin.* 
But the bird himself is his own bard; and if one could transcribe his 
little song, it would express completely the humble poesy of his life. 
The one which I have by my side, and which flies about my study, 
for lack of listeners of his own species, perches before the glass, and, 
without disturbing me, in a whispering voice utters his thoughts to 
the ideal robin which he fancies he sees before him. And here is 
their meaning, so far as a woman’s hand has succeeded in preserv- 
ng it :— 
“Je suis le compagnon 
Du pauvre bicheron. 
“ Je le suis en automne, 
Au vent des premiers froids, 
Et c'est moi qui Ini donne 
Le dernier chant des bois. 
“Tl est triste, et je chante 
Sous mon deuil mélé d’or. 
Dans la brume pesante 
Je vois l’azur encor. 
“ Que ce chant te releve 
Et te garde l'espoir! 
Qu'il te berce d'un réve, 
Et te raméne au soir! 
‘Mais quand vient la gelée, 
Je frappe a ton carreau. 
* It is unnecessary to remind the reader that this is true only of French poets.— 
Translator. 
