Chilled to their poor little marrows,

Though feathered in winter array,

For cold blows the wind o’er the housetop

And bitter and bleak is the day.

“You two little balls of brown feathers!

You chattering he and she!

Of what are you thinking, my pretty ones,

As you nestle close under the lea?”

“Shall we tell you,” they twitter in chorus,

“Our thoughts in this sharp winter air,

Through which the chill ice drops are falling

O’er treetops so wind-torn and bare?

“We remember our love in the spring time—

Ah, life to us then was so dear,

As we drifted through days joy-laden,

And nights filled with moonbeams so clear.

“We remember the sunshine of summer,

When the hours floated by like a dream,

And the air was alive with bird-music

And the world was a shimmer of green.

“We remember, too, winter is fleeting,

Though now it is snow-bound and drear;

But sometime the sunshine will loosen

The ice chains and spring will be here.

“We remember”—the little heads quiver

And the voices sound drowsily deep,

As they come from ’way down among feathers;

“We remember”—a pause—“then we sleep.”

—Alberta A. Field.