RAIN, plenty of grain,

Sang the birds in the harvest field;

Grain, plenty of grain;

H ow grandly it doth yield!

Grain, plenty of grain,

Eat, and chirp, and sing;

Come one and all to the harvest field,

Each with buoyant wing.

Grain, plenty of grain,

The reapers are out to-day;

And every bird from far and near,

Must sing a roundelay.

Grain, plenty of grain,

And not a farmer near;

Chirp, chirp, how glad are we,

To find this harvest here!

Over the top of the stack,

Down on the bundle bound;

Swoop and pick, and sing your songs;

Such a feast is seldom found.

Original

Chirp, chirp, chirp,

Sing with all your might,

The glorious day will soon be done,

And the harvest ends to-night.

Grain, plenty of grain,

Eat your fill, my friends;

Let us gladly, cheerfully take,

The food the dear God sends.

"I think," said Toots, "that every song you read is the best one, and I wish birds could talk.

"They certainly talk to each other," said his mother, "and the robins in our apple-tree try very hard to answer me when I talk to them."

Original

Original