120 
OUR HOME BIRDS. 
Blee. 
And so has papa ; that you cannot deny. 
Ah, how I do love to see, 
Shining right over me, 
Father’s orange-colored vest 
On the nest. 
Binniwink. 
But' mother’s pretty little eye, 
So cunningly, so kindly, 
Peeps sideways down on me. 
Blee. 
But then how father sits and sings, 
While balanced on the bough he swings ! 
That is the thing of all things 
I do love to hear 
With my little ear. 
Don’t you, Binniwinkie, dear ? 
How his shining throat he swells, 
When his pretty song he trills ! — 
That queer song, 
That sweet song, 
Sweeter, tenderer, than ’tis long. 
I see it bubbling up his throat 
Just before he sings it out. 
Oh, it makes me laugh so, 
And it makes me want to sing too. 
WlLLAWEE. 
Father goes cherry-gathering on every tree : 
I hope he’ll bring home a nice blackheart for me, 
