A BIRD STORY.
BY M. E. B.
IT’S strange how little boys’ mothers
Can find it all out as they do,
If a fellow does anything naughty,
Or says anything that’s not true!
They’ll look at you just a moment
Till your heart in your bosom swells,
And then they know all about it—
For a little bird tells!
Now where the little bird comes from,
Or where the little bird goes,
If he’s covered with beautiful plumage,
Or black as the king of the crows,
If his voice is as hoarse as a raven
Or clear as the ringing of bells,
I know not—but this I am sure of—
A little bird tells!
The moment you think a thing wicked,
The moment you do a thing bad,
Are angry or sullen or hateful,
Get ugly or stupid or mad,
Or tease a dear brother or sister—
That instant your sentence he knells
And the whole to mamma in a minute
That little bird tells.
You may be in the depths of a closet
Where nobody sees but a mouse,
You may be all alone in the cellar,
You may be on the top of the house,
You may be in the dark and the silence,
Or out in the woods and the dells—
No matter! Wherever it happens
The little bird tells!
And the only contrivance to stop him,
Is just to be sure what you say—
Sure of your facts and your fancies,
Sure of your work and your play;
Be honest, be brave, and be kindly,
Be gentle and loving as well,
And then—you can laugh at the stories
The little bird tells!