  By C. B. Once, upon a winter day, As I sat, forlorn and sad, Thinking, in a fretful way, Of the time when I was glad— Hopping lightly o’er the snow, Came a robin that I know. On the window ledge he stood, With a bright inquiring eye; ’Twas a compact that he should Always call in passing by, Just to show we might pretend Each to entertain a friend. When I saw my tiny guest Waiting for his daily crumb, Dainty, trim, and self-possessed, Never doubting it would come, I could almost hear him say, “Mistress, food is scarce to-day.” And my heart made sad reply, As the little dole I threw, “Strange that one so poor as I Should have store enough for two! Robin, if the thing could be, Would you throw a crumb to me?” Not a sound disturbed the hush, Save my own impatient sigh— Robin to a neighboring bush Darted off without good bye. How! you leave me, faithless bird, As I waited for a word. Ah! I wronged that heart of flame: Through the silence, sweet and clear, Forth his cheery carol came, And I held my breath to hear, For that dear familiar strain Woke my better self again. Suddenly the music ceased, Yet the silence breathed of balm; Art thou flown, then, small hedge priest, Somewhere else to raise the psalm? “Man,” the Master finely said, “Doth not live alone by bread.” decorative line [Not Required.] |
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