Mabel stood by the garden gate
Swinging her hat in a careless way;
A frown on her face, a pout on her lip;
For naughty had Mabel been that day.
A pert brown Thrush on a bough o'er head
Fluttered his wings and carolled his song.
Happy as ever a bird could be,
Singing and working all day long.
Mabel had risen late that morn;
The breakfast was over, and everything cold;
Mamma was busy and Harry was ill,
And Bridget did nothing at all but scold.
Long ere the light, the Thrush had been out,
Catching his breakfast as best he could;
Working and singing with right good will—
Never was bird in a merrier mood.
Mabel had started the day all wrong,
Had hurriedly dressed and forgotten to pray;
The bird sang on and she heard his song,
And the wonderful things he seemed to say.
"I waked," he sang, "as one by one
The stars slipped out of the purple night,
Ere the slender fingers of infant dawn
Could catch the thread of their faint pure light.
I bathed in the brook that sings near by,
And borne on the breath of the opening day,
Joyously up to the brightening sky,
I sent to my Maker a grateful lay.
And so I go on and I build my nest,
Happy and busy as bird can be;
For I know though the winds blow cold and chill,
My Heavenly Father guardeth me."
Mabel looked up with a penitent face,
The bird had flown, but the lesson stayed,
And Mabel went in from the garden gate
A better, and wiser, and happier maid.
For bright, or dark is this life of ours,
Just as we make it, children dear—
With naughty deeds come the chilling showers
While the skies of the good are bright and clear.