"GO, weed in the garden till half after ten,"
Rob's mother said, sharply. "I'll not speak again."
"Dear me," said Rob, sighing, "I wish I could be
The robin that's singing up there in the tree.
Birds never weed gardens—they never bring wood,
They do as I'd like to, and would if I could.
They've nothing to trouble them, only to sing,
And rock on the branch when they're not on the wing."
"See here, little boy," said the Robin to Rob,
"Though you think I am idle I'm planning a job.
Four nestlings to care for—such great hungry things!
There isn't much rest for a father bird's wings.
The cats try to catch us—the boys are as bad.
Birds have work, wants and worries like others, my lad.
Be content as God made us, as bird, boy, or man,
And do what needs doing the best way we can."
—Eben E. Rexford, in Central Presbyterian.