The Sparrow 



By Abbie Farwell Brown 



Little bird of dusty brown, 

 Why do you stay here in town, 

 In the noise and dirt and heat 

 Hopping in the dusty street? 

 Other songsters choose to go 

 Where the grass and clovers grow, 

 Where the dew is on the hill 

 And the shady woods are still ; 

 Where the baby rivers skip, 

 And the cool green mosses drip. 

 There tomorrow I shall be ! 

 Sparrow, do you envy me? 



Saucy bird, alert and quick, 

 Lingering on stone and brick, — 

 Little children linger, too. 

 Who perhaps are fond of you ; 

 Pale and pitiful to see. 

 Sick and sorry, too, maybe. 

 They can dream but never go 

 Where the ferns and daisies grow. 

 All the sultry summer through 

 They will hear no bird but you. 

 Cheap and common, sharp and shrill. 

 Chirping, chirping, chirping still. 

 Picking bugs and crumbs and things. 

 Yet — you have the gift of wings ; 

 They can see you dart and fly 

 Free and high to tree and sky, — 

 Only little comrade given 

 Who can bring them news of heaven ! 



Sparrow, when I go away, 



Is that why you choose to stay? 



— From St. Nicholas. 



627 



