But Blackbird, not silenced, then spoke out again; "I've built my small nest with much labor and pain. I'm a poor singing gentleman, Sirs, it is true, Though cockneys do often mistake me for you; But I keep Mrs. Blackbird, and four little eggs, And neither e'er pilfers, or borrows, or begs. Now have I not right on my side, do you see?" But they flew at and pecked him all down the elm-tree. Ah! wickedness prospers sometimes, I much fear; And virtue's not always victorious, that's clear: At least, not at first: for it must be confessed Poor Blackbird lost many a stick from his nest; And his unkind grand neighbors with scoffing caw-caws, In his voice and his character found many flaws, And jeered him and mocked him; but when they'd all done, He flew to his tree and sang cheerily on. At length May arrived with her garlands of leaves; The swallows were building beneath the farm-eaves, Wrens, linnets, and sparrows, on every hedge-side, Were bringing their families out with great pride; While far above all, on the tallest tree-top, With a flutter and clamor that never did stop, The haughty old Rooks held their heads up so high, And dreamed not of trouble--until it drew nigh! One morning at seven, as he came with delight To his wife's pretty parlor of may-blossoms white, Having fed all his family ere rise of sun,-- Mr. Blackbird perceived--a big man with a gun; Who also perceived him: "See, Charlie, among That may, sits the Blackbird we've heard for so long: Most likely his nest's there--how frightened he looks! Nay, Blackie, we're not come for you, but the Rooks." I don't say 'twas cruel--I can't say 'twas kind-- On the subject I haven't quite made up my mind: But those guns went pop-popping all morning, alas! And young Rooks kept dropping among the long grass, Till good Mr. Blackbird, who watched the whole thing, For pity could scarcely a single note sing, And in the May sunset he hardly could bear To hear the returning Rooks' caw of despair. "O, dear Mrs. Blackbird," at last warbled he, "How happy we are in our humble thorn-tree; How gaily we live, living honest and poor, How sweet are the may-blossoms over our door." "And then our dear children," the mother replied, And she nested them close to her warm feathered side, And with a soft twitter of drowsy content, In the quiet May moonlight to sleep they all went. THE SHAKING OF THE PEAR-TREE OF all days I remember, In summers passed away, Was "the shaking of the pear-tree," In grandma's orchard gay. A large old-fashioned orchard, With long grass under foot, And blackberry-brambles crawling In many a tangled shoot.