Eve kept her babies carefully warm, Safe from the evening chill, safe from the storm; As the Lord made of skins a garment for her, Eve must have known that the babes needed fur; Cloaks lined with ermine and fluffiest goods, Wraps fringed with camel’s hair; eider down hoods. O, to have seen the sweet darlings of Eve Would have been a great lesson, we well may believe! THE ORIOLE’S SONG Dear little orioles rocked in the tree By the sweet summer winds, waiting for me; Waiting for mother the supper to bring; O baby orioles, father will sing! Father will sing as he sits on the bough, Watching his babies wait supper just now. Dear little downy brood, hearing the tune All the bright Baltimores warble in June. You must wear hoods of soft feathery black, With a dark cape coming over your back. The front of your dress must be of bright gold, Almost vermilion, like father’s of old. With feathers white-edged on both little wings; That’s what the oriole wears when he sings. His stockings are azure, the same that they wore In the bright orchestra close to Eve’s door! We never change style; the old one is best: Given of Him Who our forefathers dressed; Days before Eve placed a rose in her hair, The same golden red did the orioles wear. The world is so restless, so hungry for change; Its plans are like billows that o’er the sea range: It alters its patterns, its habits and words; And what would they do were it not for the birds! If we don’t praise Him, and sing when we can, There’ll be a chorus left out of His plan. And when He looks down on the oriole’s tree, There must go up a sweet warble from me. ’Tis all I can give Him for nest on the bough; The song that He taught me, I’m singing it now. Dear baby orioles, learn to sing this; ’Tis the sweet song of the Eden of bliss! LULLABY OF THE ORIOLE Your nest is all built, and your birdies are there, Hidden away from the draughts of the air; O pretty songster of garden and glen, Whistle again, birdie, whistle again! “Yapou-yapou! ha-ha! he-he!” Who taught you to build such a wonderful nest? There you may rock all the night in your rest, Swung by the breezes till morn cometh, then, Whistle again, birdie, whistle again! “Yapou-yapou! ha-ha! he-he!” O, pretty oriole, where is your mate? Still he is searching and breakfast is late. Call him from hill-top, call him from glen; Whistle again, birdie, whistle again! “Yapou-yapou! ha-ha! he-he!” THE MOTHER TO HER SLEEPING BABE