Saucy bird, alert and quick, Lingering on stone and brick— Little children linger too, Who perhaps are fond of you; Pale and pitiful to see, Sick and sorry too, maybe. They can dream, but never stray Where the ferns and daisies play. All the sultry summer through They will hear no bird but you, Cheap and common, sharp and shrill, Chirping, chirping, chirping still, Picking bugs and crumbs and things. Yet—you have the gift of wings! They can see you dart and fly Free and high to tree and sky— Only little comrade given Who can bring them news of heaven! Sparrow, though I run away, Is that why you choose to stay? SYLVIA Sylvia is always gay. When she winged to earth one day, Through the wonders of the sky, She caught a star as she flew by, Green and gold and amethyst, In her tiny baby fist, And hid it in her little breast As a secret unconfessed. Like a jeweled lantern she Shines for all the world to see. In her eyes the sparkle beams, From her burnished hair it gleams; Radiant all she does and says, All her pretty, twinkling ways— Just because she dared to leaven Lifetime with a bit of heaven. Sylvia! Without your spark, Oh, the journey would be dark. THE PLUME “Here is a gift,” the Brownie said, As something fell on the little maid’s head— “A golden feather with silver bars Of the Faraway Bird who sings to the stars; A beautiful plume to use as you will, Fortunate friend on top of the hill! Fasten it into your curly hair; Love will follow and find you fair. Put it into the Magi’s hands; They will pay you with gold and lands. Feather a shaft with the magic thing, And bring down Fame with a crippled wing. Other wonders the plume can do, But I wouldn’t bother, if I were you!”