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As I walk'd over the hills one day,
I listen'd, and heard a mother-sheep say:

"In all the green world there is nothing so sweet

As my little lammie with his nimble feet,

With his eye so bright,

And his wool so white:

Oh! he is my darling, my heart's delight,
The robin, he

That sings in the tree,

Dearly may dote on his darlings four;
But I love my one little lambkin more.
And the mother-sheep and her little one
Side by side lay down in the sun,

As they went to sleep on the hill-side warm,
While my little lammie lies here on my arm.

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I went to the kitchen, and what did I see
But the old grey cat with her kittens three?
I heard her whispering soft-said she,


My kittens, with tails all so cunningly curl'd, Are the prettiest things that can be in the world.

The bird on the tree,

And the old ewe, she

May love their babies exceedingly;

But I love my kittens there,
Under the rocking-chair.

I love my kittens with all my might,

I love them at morning, and noon, and night.
Which is the prettiest, I cannot tell,—

Which of the three, for the life of me,

I love them all so well.

Now I'll take up my kitties, the kitties I love,

And we'll lie down together beneath the warm stove."

Let the kitties sleep under the stove so warm,
While my little darling lies here on my arm.

I went to the yard, and saw the old hen

Go clucking about with chickens ten.

She cluck'd, and she scratch'd, and she bristled away; And what do you think I heard the hen say?

I heard her say, "The sun never did shine

On anything like to these chickens of mine.

You may hunt the full moon, and the stars, if you please,
you never will find ten such chickens as these.
The cat loves her kitten, the ewe loves her lamb;
But they do not know what a proud mother I am;
Nor for lambs nor for kittens will I part with these,
Though the sheep and the cat should get down on their
No, no! not though


The kittens could crow,

Or the lammie on two yellow legs could go.

My own dear darlings! my sweet little things!
Come, nestle now cosily under my wings."
So the hen said,

And the chickens all sped

As fast as they could to their nice feather-bed ;
And there let them sleep, in their feathers so warm,
While my little chick nestles here on my arm,

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THE skylark's nest among the grass
And waving corn is found;
The robin's on a shady bank,

With oak-leaves strew'd around.

The wren builds in an ivied thorn,
Or old and ruin'd wall;

The mossy nest so cover'd in,
You scarce can see at all.

The martins build their nests of clay,
In rows beneath the eaves;
The silvery lichens, moss, and hair,
The chaffinch interweaves.

The cuckoo makes no nest at all,
But through the wood she strays,
Until she finds one snug and warm,
And there her eggs she lays.

The sparrow has a nest of hay,
With feathers warmly lined;
The ring-dove's careless nest of sticks,
On lofty trees we find.

Rooks build together in a wood,

And often disagree;

The owl will build inside a barn,

Or in a hollow tree.

The blackbird's nest of grass and mud
In bush and bank is found;
The lapwing's darkly spotted eggs
Are laid upon the ground.

The magpie's nest is made with thorns
In leafless tree or hedge;
The wild-duck and the water-hen
Build by the water's edge.

Birds build their nests from year
According to their kind;
Some very neat and beautiful,-
Some simpler ones we find.

to year,

The habits of each little bird,
And all its patient skill,
Are surely taught by God himself,
And order'd by His will.

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COME out into the lane with me,

And see what I have found;

It is a little robin's nest,
That's built upon the ground.


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