BY C. FRANCES ALEXANDER

Little birds sleep sweetly
In their soft round nests,
Crouching in the cover
Of their mother’s breasts.
Little lambs lie quiet,
All the summer night,
With their old ewe mothers,
Warm, and soft, and white.

But more sweet and quiet
Lie our little heads,
With our own dear mothers
Sitting by our beds;
And their soft sweet voices
Sing our hush-a-byes,
While the room grows darker,
As we shut our eyes.

And we play at evening
Round our father’s knees;
Birds are not so merry,
Singing on the trees,
Lambs are not so happy,
’Mid the meadow flowers;
They have play and pleasure,
But not love like ours.