Our Feathered Friends Poem by Della Hodgson James

The graceful blue'bird
Heads the list.
With gray-blue jacket
And scarlet vest.
Large pretty eyes, with
A questioning look,
For a blue'bird house
In some cozy nook
The children are out,
When they hear her sing.
With their gleeful shout,
‘Tis spring! ‘Tis spring!
Then the robin comes
With his cheery chatter,
He sings out, Ha! Ha!
What's the matter?
His jacket is a little more
Darker in hue,
Like the blue'bird, his vest
Is scarlet, too.
But he makes his home
High up in a tree.
Where he can sit and sing,
All day, with glee.

One of our most prized
And cherished friends,
In the feathered world,
Is Jenny Wren.
She doesn't look in the
Top of a tree,
Nor does she look
In the garden, See!
But under the eves, is
Where she likes best.
To raise her brood
In a snug little nest.

The sly gray cat-bird
With his smutty vest,
Hunts a dense briar patch
To build his nest.
The large red cardinal
With the clear bright eye,
Is also a bramble lover
But not so shy.
Sometimes he comes
To our rambler rose.
Then we get a clear view
From head to toes.

The large gray mocking bird
Another that sings.
Also arrives very early
In the spring.
She: Like the Robin
So gay and so free,
Looks for nothing lower
Than the top of a tree.
But when she builds a nest,
Which is doubted by some.
She picks on a hedge apple
Haw tree, or plum.

The tingy gray Chick-a-dee
With his little black hood,
Looks quite diligently
For a hole in some wood.
A hole in a post, or the
Stump of a tree.
Makes him quite as happy
As happy can be.
But there's no feathered friend
With quite so much ardor,
Nor as useful as he, when he
Homes near your garden.

The Brown Thrasher Nest's
Near a grainiery, or barn
Not as useful as Jenny,
But does us no harm.
The Tangers are another
Of our prized feathered pets,
An one of the most ardent
Singers yet.
They next on the lowest branches
Of a tree,
Sometimes quite close
To our door-step, see.
The father bird is red
The mother bird, yellow.
The father bird sings
He's a jolly old fellow.

The Oriole, another of our
Prized singing pets,
He is not quite so early
But he never forgets.
The closer to the house
The better it suits him,
A little swinging nest
On the tip of a limb.
No nest is so hidden
As the Orioles, so near
Their nest is invisible
Tho the babies you hear.

The little Ground Sparrow
So modest in dress,
And not a bit choosy, either
About building a nest.
Right on the open ground
Or in a bunch of clover,
Or in a tiny sprout perhaps
Well hidden from a rover.
But a little secret here I'll tell.
Her nest is hidden quite so well
The color scheme, the ground, her dress,
The dry grass with which she
Builds her nest.
All look alike, among the clover
You might just easily,
Stumble over.
But if she's near, you hear her "cheet"
At your feet.
She hop's about, she's friendly, too.
She does not mind the morning dew.
She is not merited for her feature,
But she's a loveable little creature.

The Nuthatch and the
Scarlet Tanger
The deep blue Finch, are
Not a stranger.
Yet their migrating habits,
I don't know so well
And their nesting place
I could not tell.
There are many more
Who come and go,
From early spring
To flying snow.

I love so much
To hear them sing.
The woods around us
With their music rings.
I wonder if we'll ever know
Just where our feathered friends go.
We miss their gay and cheery song
But as sure as springtime
Brings the showers,
The sunshine and the
Wildwood flowers.
Along with the flowers
Comes the millions of bees,
And a gay new world
Of unfurled leaves.
But best of all, which
Crows the rest.
It brings our song-birds
Back to nest