THE HEDGEHOG. 109 
The poor Hedgehog! one would think he knew 
His foes so many, his friends so few, 
For when he comes out, he’s in a fright 
And hurries again to be out of sight. 
How unkind the world must seem to him, 
Living under the thicket dusk and dim, 
And getting his living among the roots, 
Of the insects small, and dry hedge-fruits. 
How hard it must be, to be kicked about, 
If by chance his prickly back peep out ; 
To be all his days misunderstood, 
When he could not harm us if he would! 
He’s an innocent thing living under the blame 
That he merits not, of an evil name; 
He is weak and small,—and all he needs, 
Lies under the hedge among the weeds. 
He robs not man of rest or food, 
And all that he asks is quietude; 
To be left by him, as a worthless stone, 
Under the dry hedge-bank alone ! 
v L 
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