"Where did you learn all that?" asked Marjorie, pulling on her stockings.
"Listen; there's another verse and maybe two or three," cooed the Dove,
and then she began to sing again:
The robin of the woodland
Has a pretty crimson vest;
He sings a merry, blithesome song
And builds a cozy nest.
The robin of the ocean
Has fins that look like wings.
He doesn't build a nest at all,
He grunts, but never sings.
Yet both of them are robins,
As some of us have heard--
Although the ocean one's a fish,
The woodland one's a bird.
"Cock-a-doodle-do!" crowed the Weathercock, as the Dove finished her song.
"Hurrah for you! You are the poet of the Ark."
"Oh, no!" replied the modest little Dove. "That is not my own. My mother
taught me that song when I was a Dovelet."
"Is that so?" said the Weathercock, and he gave a sigh of relief, for I
guess he wanted to be the only poet on board the Ark and sing his little
songs every morning just as he had always done.
By this time Marjorie was dressed and, taking the Dove on her shoulder,
went down to the diningroom.
Pages:
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43