  There in the summer woodland, Down in the quiet glade, Hid in a leafy thicket, Is a little fawn in the shade. And the wildwood moss is growing About its dry leaf bed; And the vine of the forest swaying Its blossoms overhead. The mother roe comes often To nurse her baby deer; And she listens, listens, listens, Lest some bold foot come near. There she dreams with her baby, Till birds of the early dawn Wake the mother from slumber To nurse her dear little fawn. Who made the glad mother, Who made the wee fawn? Who made the bright birdies The same Who made baby, The same Who made me; Who calls us and calls us His loved ones to be. endpaper divider |
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