  Here in the garden-bed, Hoeing the celery, Wonders the Lord has made Pass ever before me. I saw the young birds build, And swallows come and go, And summer grow and gild, And winter die in snow. Many a thing I note, And store it in my mind; For all my ragged coat, I light my pipe and draw, And, leaning on my spade, I marvel with much awe O'er all the Lord hath made. Now, here's a curious thing: Upon the first of March, The crow goes house-building, In the elms and in the larch. And be it shine or snow, Though many winds carouse, That day the artful crow Begins to build his house. But then—the wonder's big!— If Sunday fall that day Nor straw, nor scraw, nor twig, Till Monday will he lay. His black wings to his side, He'll drone upon his perch, Subdued and holy-eyed, As though he were at church. The crow's a gentleman Not greatly to my mind, He'll steal what seeds he can, Yet though he's bully and sneak, To small birds bird of prey— He counts the days of the week, And keeps the Sabbath day. Katharine Tynan Hinkson |
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