Читать книгу: «The Bird and Insects' Post Office», страница 4

LETTER VIII.
FROM THE GANDER TO THE TURKEY-COCK.

(Charles Bloomfield.)

 
Old friend, you certainly have merit;
You really are a bird of spirit.
I'm quite surprised, I must confess;
I did not think you did possess
Such valour as you've lately shown —
In fact, 'tis nearly like my own.
You know I've always been renown'd
For bravery, since first I found
That I could hiss; and feel I'm bolder
Each year that I am growing older.
You must, I'm sure, have often seen,
When in the pond, or on the green,
With all my family about me
(I can't think how they'd do without me),
Some human thing come striding by,
And how, without a scruple, I
March after him, and bite his heel;
And then, you know, the pride I feel
To hear, as back I march again,
The feat extoll'd by all my train.
But if I were to tell you all
The valiant actions, great and small,
That ever were achieved by me,
I never should have done, I see;
For cows, and pigs, and horses know
The consequence of such a foe.
However, I am glad to find
That you have such a noble mind,
And think, my friend, that by and by
You'll rise to be as great as I.
 

Your old friend,

HISS.

LETTER IX.
FROM THE DUNGHILL-COCK TO THE CHAFFINCH

I have often, during the spring and summer, heard you of a morning piping away in the hedges, sometimes as soon as I was up myself, and thought your singing pretty fair, and that you conducted yourself as you ought to do.

But this I cannot say lately; for it is quite overstepping the bounds of decency and good manners when you and your brother pilferers, now the winter is come, make it your daily practice to come by scores, as you do, into our yard, and, without any ceremony, eat up all the barley you can lay your beaks to. I suppose when the spring comes again, and you find more to satisfy you outside a farmyard than within, you will be off to the hedges again. I shall let you alone, unless the barley runs short, which is to support my wives and children; when if you still venture to continue your pilferings, you must not be surprised should some of you feel the weight of my displeasure.

I must go after my family, who are all out of my sight, since I have been writing this.

Yours in haste, and a friend if possible,

CHANTICLEER.

LETTER X.
FROM THE BLUE-BOTTLE FLY TO THE GRASSHOPPER

(Charles Bloomfield.)

I

 
s I roamed t'other day,
Neighbour Hop, in my way
I discovered a nice rotten plum,
Which you know is a treat;
And, to taste of the sweet,
A swarm of relations had come.
 

II

 
So we all settled round,
As it lay on the ground,
And were feasting ourselves with delight;
But, for want of more thought
To have watched, as we ought,
We were suddenly seized – and held tight.
 

III

 
In a human clenched hand,
Where, unable to stand,
We were twisted and tumbled about;
But, perceiving a chink,
You will readily think
I exerted myself – I got out.
 

IV

 
How the rest got away
I really can't say;
But I flew with such ardour and glee.
That again, unawares,
I got into the snares
Of my foe Mr. Spider, you see;
 

V

 
Who so fiercely came out
Of his hole, that no doubt
He expected that I was secure:
But he found 'twould not do,
For I forced my way through,
Overjoyed on escaping, you're sure.
 

VI

 
But I'll now take my leave,
For the clouds I perceive
Are darkening over the sky;
The sun has gone in,
And I really begin
To feel it grow colder. – Good bye!
 

I'm, as ever, yours,

BLUE-BOTTLE FLY.

LETTER XI.
FROM THE GLOW-WORM TO THE HUMBLE-BEE

(Charles Bloomfield.)

 
Excuse, Mr. Bee, this epistle, to one
Whose time, from the earliest gleam of the sun
Till he sinks in the west, is so busily spent,
That I fear I intrude; – but I write with intent
To save your whole city from pillage and ruin,
And to warn you in time of a plot that is brewing.
Last night, when, as usual, enjoying the hour
When the gloaming had spread, and a trickling shower
Was beading the grass as it silently fell,
And day with reluctance was bidding farewell;
When down by yon hedge, nearly opposite you,
And your City of Honey, as proudly I threw
The rays from my lamp in a magical round;
I listened, alarmed upon hearing the sound
Of human intruders approaching more near;
But I presently found I had nothing to fear,
For the hedge was between us, and I and my gleam
Lay hid from their view: when the following scheme
I heard, as they sheltered beneath the old tree,
And send you each creature's own words, Mr. Bee: —
"See, Jack, there it is; now suppose you and I,
With a spade and some brimstone, should each of us try
Some night, when we're sure all the bees are at rest,
To smother them all, and then dig out the nest."
"I know we can do it," said Jack with delight;
"I can't come to-morrow; but s'pose the next night
We both set about it, if you are inclined;
And then we will halve all the honey we find?"
"Agreed," said the other, "but let us be gone."
And they left me in thought until early this morn;
When I certainly meant, if your worship had stay'd
But a minute or two, till my speech I had made,
To have saved you the reading, as well as the cost
Of a letter by post – but my words were all lost;
For though they were lavished each time you came near,
Or was close overhead, and I thought you should hear,
Yet the buzz of importance, as onward you flew,
Bobbing into each flower the whole meadow through,
So baffled your brains that I let you alone,
For I found that I might as well speak to a drone:
Yet, rather than quietly leave you to fate
(Such a villainous thought never entered my pate),
I send you this letter, composed by the light
Of my silvery lamp in the dead of the night,
And about the same time, and the very same place,
That a few nights ago, when the moon hid her face,
I beheld, nearly hid in the grass as I lay,
And my lamp in full splendour reflecting its ray
In the eye of each dewdrop, the fairies unseen
To all human vision, trip here with their Queen,
To pay me a visit, to dance and to feast;
And their revels continued, till full in the east
The sun tinged the clouds for another bright day,
When each took the warning and bounded away:
'Tis the same at this moment. Farewell, Mr. Hum,
I've extinguished my lamp, for the morning is come.
 

SPANGLE.