Fringilla: Some Tales In Verse

"What means your finch?"


"Being well aware that he cannot sing like a Nightingale,

He flits about from tree to tree, and twitters a little tale."


Albeit he is an ancient bird, who tried

his pipe in better days, and then was

scared by random shots, he is fain to

lift the migrant wing once more towards the

humble perch, among the trees he loves. All

gardeners own that he does no harm, unless

he flits into a thicket of young buds, or a very

choice ladies' seed-bed. And he hopes that he is

now too wise to commit such indiscretions.


Perhaps it would have been wiser still to

have shut up his little mandible, or employed it


only upon grub. But the long gnaw of last

winter's frost, which set mankind a-shivering,

even in their most downy nest, has made them

kindly to the race that has no roof for shelter

and no hearth for warmth.


Anyhow, this little finch can do no harm,

if he does no good; and if he pleases nobody,

he will not be surprised, because he has never

satisfied himself.