The song-sparrow has a joyous note,
The brown thrush whistles bold and free;
But my little singing-bird at home
Sings a sweeter song to me.
The cat-bird, at morn or evening, sings
With liquid tones like gurgling water;
But sweeter by far, to my fond ear,
Is the voice of my little daughter.
Four years and a half since she was born,
The blackcaps piping cheerily,--
And so, as she came in winter with them,
She is called our Chicadee.
She sings to her dolls, she sings alone,
And singing round the house she goes,--
Out-doors or within, her happy heart
With a childlike song o'erflows.
Her mother and I, though busy, hear,--
With mingled pride and pleasure listening,--
And thank the inspiring Giver of song,
While a tear in our eye is glistening.
Oh! many a bird of sweetest song
I hear, when in woods or meads I roam;
But sweeter by far than all, to me,
Is my Chicadee at home.
* * * * *
THE ILLUSTRIOUS OBSCURE.
A SECOND LETTER FROM PAUL POTTER, OF NEW YORK, TO THE DON ROBERTO
WAGONERO, COMMORANT OF WASHINGTON, IN THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA.
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