The Meadow Quails


Over in the meadow where the men make hay,

In an elm-tree shadow on a bright summer day,

Two speckled quails ponder as to what will be best,

Should the stout mower blunder on their pretty home-nest.



But a cloud in a minute from her great white bed

Threw a big silver bonnet o'er the sun's golden head

And the quails, though they wondered would their home be beset,

Cried aloud, and
it thundered: "More wet! more wet!"







Then the great sturdy yeoman coming close to the nest,

With the heart of a true man beating soft in his breast,

Saw the parent-quails watching, with what fear who can tell?

Saw the baby-quails hatching, hardly out of the shell.



And who knows but he thought of his own precious baby

His dear little daughter in her mother's arms, maybe?

For he quickly made over that portion of meadow

With the sweetest of clover, and the softest of shadow.



To the quails who all summer lived alongside the lane,

Ever warning the farmer of the forth-coming rain;

For long ere it thundered and I hear the cry yet

They would call as they wandered, "More wet! More wet!"





* * * * *



DIDN'T-THINK is a heedless lad

And never takes the prize:

Remember-well wins every time.

For he is quick and wise.



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