290 
OUR HOME BIRDS. 
“ Here is a pretty little poem that I am sure you 
will like: 
‘ When winter winds are blowing, 
And clouds are full of snow, 
There comes a flock of little birds 
A-flying to and fro ; 
About the withered garden, 
Around the naked field, 
In any wayside shrub or tree 
That may a berry yield, 
You’ll see them flitting, flitting, 
And hear their merry song : 
The scattered crumbs of summer’s feast 
Feed winter birdlings long. 
‘ But when the snow-drifts cover 
The garden and the field, 
When all the shrubs are cased in ice, 
And every brook is sealed, 
Then come the little snow-birds 
As beggars to your door ; 
They pick up every tiny crumb, 
With eager chirps for more. 
Like wandering musicians, 
They ’neath the windows sing ; 
All winter long they stroll about, 
And leave us in the spring. 
1 Off to the land of icebergs, 
To islands cold and drear, 
