John Bannister Tabb

(1845-1909 / the United States)

A Fledgling - Poem by John Bannister Tabb

'Why is it, little chick,' I said
'That you so ragged go?'
'Alas,' he answered, 'father's dead
And mother cannot sew.

'She does her very best to lay,
Till I have learned to crow;
But bread is rising every day,
And eggs, alas, are low.'

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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, September 1, 2010

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