Page:The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter.djvu/305

Then with much laughter would she drive them forth
From her small room until her work was done;
Where she could watch from out the open door,
And smile upon them playing in the sun.

One golden morn as she drove forth her brood
Of pretty chicks to meet the coming day,
She pointed where a mother throstle clung
With three young birds upon a flow'ry spray.

And as she watched, from the blue air swept down
A hawk, who for a dreadful moment still
Swung in the air, as counting, one, two, three,
Which frightened fledgling he would pounce to kill,

Then struck. She heard the mother's scream of rage,
Who in her wild despair went flying high,
Then dropt again beside the cowering two
That still remained, with sad and piteous cry.

“So death might swoop,” the woman said, “on mine.”
She kissed each babe and there let fall a tear:
“My little ones, so tender and so weak.”
Into her heart there came an endless fear.

Was Hugh too pale, was Una's cheek too red,
Was Kathleen languid in her pretty play?
“O Lord! O Father! keep my darlings safe,”
She held the baby in her arms to pray.

And as she bent her down all full of prayer,
Above the nest that held her pretty brood:
To fold them close with her great mother's love
And fill each little mouth that called for food,

Then did the Hawk a moment hover high
Above the house, and swooping strike to kill
No tender fledgling—ah! less easy spared,
The mother fell to whet his cruel bill.