Where, think you, a little gray finch in the far wide West

Chose (of all places!) to build and to brood her nest?

Well, I will tell you the tale that the hunter told:

(Strange things has he seen—this hunter grizzled and old.)

He spoke of the cattle that came to no herder’s call,

Roaming the fenceless prairie from springtime to fall.

A shot from his rifle laid low the king of the herd—

When, hark! the sharp cry of a circling and hovering bird!

What did it mean? The hunter drew in his rein,

And leaped to the ground, where dead lay the lord of the plain!

Stilled was the beating heart, and glazed were the eyes;

The fluttering bird circled higher, and sharper her cries;

While, finer and fainter, yet many, and all as keen,

Came cries from below, as in answer. What could it mean?

The hunter bent down; and his heart with wonder was stirred,

When he saw, between the wide horns, the nest of a bird,

Like a crown which the prairie’s monarch might choose to wear

On his shaggy forelock, and lined with the friendly hair!

The hunter stood still, abashed in the midst of the plain,

To hear the little gray mother’s cry of pain,

And the faint fine voices of nestlings answer the cry;

While their fearless friend lay dead between earth and sky!