THE LATE BROOD.
The grave-eyed youngsters on the nest’s broad edge,
Beneath the sheltered eaves sat day by day,
While summer into autumn blazed away;
And winter whispered through the garden hedge
With hailstones rattled on the bronzing sedge.
The anxious parents, keen to be away,
Hunted and hawked for them till evening gray,
But still the nestlings clung to that safe ledge.
Then from the clouds a radiant morning broke,
And suddenly the Glen was full of wings,
Tribe called to tribe, and quickly Nature spoke,
Launching the young amid the whirling rings,
Short flights, but daily lengthened, till we woke
To find them gone—our darling feathered things.
