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I
OF late have done some thinking of the birds we love so well ; Filled it seems with consternation where the sportsmen chance to dwell; For a reason too apparent, in the so-called sport of men, Though to take a life it lures them, robin red-breast or the wren. On a recent autumn morning, but a distance short away I espied, from out the window, clinging to a great stone gray Which was woven in construction of a church with lofty tower, Such a fascinating picture as might deck a woodland bower. In its fright was fondly clinging to the stone above described, Sleek and beautiful in color, with a charm for which I sighed, With its glassy eyes appealing for a helping hand it seemed-- For a hawk or hunter sought it, as the morning sunlight beamed. True, it was a full-grown pheasant, that had flown so nearly by, Quite as if to ask protection, till the bird of prey flew by, And I looked in pity on it, may I but compassion know, And I thought, God-speed, fair caller, Freedom is your pass- word-go! For a moment my attention was diverted from the charm. And I gladly would have housed it safely from approaching harm; When again I turned to see it, in the early morn of day, It had gently fanned the zephyrs, and as lightly flown away. |