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THE SANDPIPER

BY CELIA THAXTER

Across the narrow beach we flit,
One little sandpiper and I;
And fast I gather, bit by bit,

The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry.
The wild waves reach their hands for it,
The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,
As up and down the beach we flit,-
One little sandpiper and I.

Above our heads the sullen clouds
Scud black and swift across the sky;
Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds
Stand out the white light-houses high.
Almost as far as eye can reach
I see the close-reefed vessels fly,
As fast we flit along the beach,-
One little sandpiper and I.

I watch him as he skims along,
Uttering his sweet and mournful cry.
He starts not at my fitful song,

Or flash of fluttering drapery.

He has no thought of any wrong;

He scans me with a fearless eye.
Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong,—
The little sandpiper and I.

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night
When the loosed storm breaks furiously?
My driftwood fire will burn so bright!
To what warm shelter canst thou fly?
I do not fear for thee, though wroth
The tempest rushes through the sky:
For are we not God's children both,—
Thou, little sandpiper, and I?

THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH

SUGGESTED BY LONGFELLOW'S POEM

I

The interior of the town hall of Killingworth on a fine spring morning. Through the windows come the songs of the birds as they flit back and forth through the lofty trees. Seated around a long table is the town council, the Squire presiding.

The Squire. The meeting is called to order! (Raps on the table.) Fellow-citizens, we are here to

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decide what can be done to rid us of these pests, the birds. What have you to propose?

The Farmer. My fields suffer more and more every year. Yesterday, as I was planting corn, the saucy crows sat on the fence and cawed at me till I was beside myself. They have even dared to build a nest in my old scarecrow! you ever see such impudence?

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The Deacon. We suffer, too, in town. this morning a pair of fat robins hopped before me down the path. They make themselves entirely at home in my cherry-trees. I doubt not the little thieves will eat a pint of the fruit before I can gather it. You are quite right. It is impudence, pure impudence! (Pounds the table.) The Banker. I can not sleep for these noisy birds. They are a pest. I move that a committee be appointed by the Squire to kill every bird found within five miles of Killingworth in the next thirty days.

The Squire. You have heard the motion. Is there a second?

The Farmer. I second the motion.

The Squire. The question is now before us.

Are there objections? (The schoolmaster comes forward, pale and trembling.)

The Schoolmaster. My friends and neighbors, consider well what you are about to do. Your committee will put to death the birds that make music for us all. And why? For the gain of a scant handful of wheat, or rye, or for a few cherries that are not half so sweet as are the songs of the birds who eat them. Their homes in the tree-tops are half-way houses on the road to Heaven. When the sun every morning shines through their leafy windows, think how happy they are! are! And when you think of this re

member

""Tis always morning somewhere, and above

The awakening continents, from shore to shore,
Somewhere the birds are singing evermore.”

What would become of your fields and orchards without birds?

You call them thieves, but know they keep your harvests from a hundred harms. Even the blackest of them all, the crow, crushes the beetle in his coat-of-mail. How can I teach your children gentleness and mercy and reverence for life,

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