The Nest.

By Elizabeth W. Townsend

Annotations by kathryn t. burt

  Farmer Gray had a field of sweet clover,
     The bees left the flowers to go to it;
  There were strawberries red in his garden bed,
     And the little brown singing birds knew it.

  He lived in a house with old out-spreading eaves,
     The swallows built there without number;
  At the dawning of day they twittered away,
     And roused the old man from his slumber.

  Yet he was not so old, tho' the neighbors did say,
     They remembered him when he was younger;
  The beggars would wait, at his old garden gate,
     Quite sure of relief from their hunger.

  He lived all alone—the dear happy old man—
     And care seemed afraid to molest[1] him,
  And gentle and wise were his tranquil[2] old eyes,
     Not a soul in the village but blessed him.

  I remember him well—I have sat on his knee,
     And played with his weather-browned fingers;
  And still in my dreams, kind and loving he seems,
     So freshly the memory lingers.

  He was healthy and hearty, the merry old man!
     And down on his shoulders the locks
  Of shining white hair used to float in the air,
     As white as the fleece of his flocks.

  One day as I passed by his moss-covered gate,
     He said, with his eyes full of glee,
  “Come here, little one, when your lessons are done,
     I have something will charm you to see.”

  All that day my lessons seemed,
     Very useless toil[3] to me;
  All that I could care for, was,
     That same “something” I should see.

  Verbs I had to conjugate[4],
     Weary lines of words to spell;
  Maps to study—it was all
     Dropping water in a well.

  Ah those days! the restless fly
     'Neath the ceiling circling round,
  Not more active was than I,
     More impatient of a bound!

  Noon at length, to dine and play,
     Then the short bright afternoon;
  Then dismissal—Farmer Gray
     I was with you very soon!

  Dancing down the garden path,
     With the child-like dear old man;
  Feeling in my eager heart,
     That which childhood only can:

  That expecting, open trust,
     Which no wonder can amaze;
  When the wildest, strangest dreams,
     Are the food of common days.

  Had he led me to a cavern
     Where the giants made their home;
  Had he shown me golden dwellings
     Fit for fairy or for gnome;

  Led me to the singing water,
     Flying fish, or talking bird;
  In those days my faith was ready,
     Trusting all I saw or heard.

  Not as wonders, not as marvels,
     Only beautiful and new;
  In those days I never questioned
     What was false or what was true.

  But the old man had no marvel,
     Roc's egg, or wild winged horse;
  Not a Hippogriff or griffin,
     To be but a thing of course.

  Only by the old stone gate-way,
     In the handle of a spade[5],
  With the strangest want of caution,
     Jenny Wren a nest had made.

  Trees were near, she might have built it
     Safely in their mossy arms;
  In the hedge was many a corner,
     More secure from all alarms.

  By her side all farm-yard travel,
     Inward, outward, daily led,
  There went prancing colts to pasture—
     Oxen bent with horned head.

  Bleating sheep, and lowing cattle,
     Frisking[6] calves and cows sedate[7];
  Crowing cocks and strutting bantams[8],
     Night and morning passed the gate.

  Jenny thought them all good neighbors,
     Never fluttered from her nest;
  While her mate in careless freedom,
     Came and went as pleased him best.

  Strange to tell, no careless passing,
     Injured nest or frightened bird;
  All day long their merry music
     Through the barn-yard could be heard.

  Days passed on—and every evening,
     Farmer Gray and I had peeped
  In the nest, and gently listened
     If the little wrens had cheeped.

  Days passed on—at last the mother,
     Underneath her downy wings,
  Hides four curious little creatures!
     And how proud the father sings.

  Now, indeed, may Jenny tremble,
     All her risk is more than doubled;
  Yet above her unfledged darlings,
     On her nest she sits untroubled.

  Wary, watchful, never tiring,
     Glancing here, and glancing there;
  One might think her fearless trusting,
     Made her every creature's care.

  Day by day the little fledglings,
     Grew more stout[9], and grew more strong;
  Day by day the busy parents,
     Came and went with merry song.

  Day by day the feathers gathered,
     Closer on their breast and wings;
  The warm nest was quite too narrow,
     Long to keep the restless things.

  Then what planning—what contriving[10]!
     No safe twigs were in their reach;
  How they twittered—how they chattered!
     Bird-talk, almost human speech.

  One by one, at last they ventured,
     First with slow and cautious play,
  Then with stronger, bolder freedom,
     One and all they flew away.

Townsend, Elizabeth W. 1855. “The Nest.” In The White Dove, and Other Poems For Children, 60-61. New York: James C. Derby & Park Place. ProQuest American Poetry.