BIRDS AND POETS 85 



THE SANDPIPER. 



Across the narrow beach we flit, 



One little sandpiper and I ; 

 And fast I gather, bit by bit. 



The scattered driftwood bleached and dry. 

 The wild waves reach their hands for it, 



The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, 

 As up and down the beach we flit, — 



One little sandpiper and I. 



Above our heads the sullen clouds 



Scud black and swift across the sky; 

 Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds 



Stand out the white lighthouses high. 

 Almost as far as eye can reach 



I see the close-reefed vessels fly, 

 As fast we flit along the beach, — 



One little sandpiper and I. 



I watch him as he skims along, 



Uttering his sweet and mournful cry; 

 He starts not at my fitful song. 



Or flash of fluttering drapery ; 

 He has no thought of any wrong ;1 



He scans me with a fearless eye. 

 Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong, 



The little sandpiper and I. 



Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night 



When the loosed storm breaks furiously ? 

 My driftwood fire will burn so bright! 



To what warm shelter canst thou fly ? 

 I do not fear for thee, though wroth 



The tempest rushes through the sky; 

 For are we not God's children both. 



Thou, little sandpiper, and I ? 



Others of our birds have been game for the poetic 

 muse, but in most cases the poets have had some 

 moral or pretty conceit to convey, and have not 

 loved the bird first. Mr. Lathrop preaches a little 



