  A A PRETTY thrush with speckled breast Within a yew had made her nest, And laid her five eggs there: Five pretty eggs so smooth and blue, And, like herself all speckled too, She brooded with much care. By day, by night, so close she sat, No babbling dog, no crafty cat, No boy her secret knew: Nor bird—save one, who sat apart And whistled to console her heart,— Thus time pass’d cheerily away; Meanwhile her bosom day by day With kindling fondness yearn’d: Till, on the morn when it befel Her callow nestlings burst the shell, With mother’s love it burn’d. Now all seem’d brighter to her eye, The earth more green, more blue the sky, For all with love was dyed: And while she flitted round for food, And pick’d it for her helpless brood, She wish’d no joy beside. Alas, that joy so sweet and pure Should be on earth so little sure! But such is Heaven’s decree. Puss mark’d where she was wont to fly, And watch’d her with a yellow eye, Now stealthily she crept beneath, And there she crouch’d as still as death, Till home the thrush might go: But mother’s eyes are open wide; And soon the cautious parent spied The ambush of her foe. Wherefore she went not near the yew, But quite another way she flew; And Pussy’s game seem’d lost: For all in vain she strove to find The nest which lay so close and blind, Where two thick stems were cross’d. Then basking in the sunny ray, She soon began to purr and play, As all on love intent: And mildness, like the velvet paw Which cloked the terrors of her claw, Twas thus, whenas the senseless brood, Who miss’d awhile their custom’d food, Began to chirp complaints; As if their mother knew not best, Or would not charge her careful breast With all their little wants. Full soon their folly did they rue; (As foolish children always do;) But ah! they rued too late: For Pussy heard their silly wail, And prick’d her ears, and lash’d her tail, And grinn’d with scorn and hate. Then up the tree amain she sprung, From branch, to bough, she leapt, she clung, Till right within the nook, Where lay the nestlings snug and warm, She planted her terrific form, How then they trembled in despair, And long’d to have their Mother there, Most grievous is to tell: And how Puss scorn’d such unripe meat, And fiercely spurn’d them with her feet. Till on the ground they fell! Alas! poor birds! had they been still, Nor chirp’d their little plaints of ill, While all was for the best, The unheeding cat had walk’d away; And they had lived secure that day Within their happy nest. man riding a boar
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