But Piccola never doubted at all
    That something beautiful must befall
    Every child upon Christmas Day,
    And so she slept till the dawn was gray.

    And, full of faith, when at last she woke,
    She stole to her shoe as the morning broke;
    Such sounds of gladness tilled all the air,
    ’Twas plain St. Nicholas had been there!

    In rushed Piccola sweet, half wild: 
    Never was seen such a joyful child. 
    “See what the good saint brought!” she cried,
    And mother and father must peep inside.

    Now such a story who ever heard? 
    There was a little shivering bird! 
    A sparrow, that in at the window flew,
    Had crept into Piccola’s tiny shoe!

    “How good Piccola must have been!”
    She cried as happy as any queen,
    While the starving sparrow she fed and warmed,
    And danced with rapture, she was so charmed.

    Children, this story I tell to you,
    Of Piccola sweet and her bird, is true. 
    In the far-off land of France, they say,
    Still do they live to this very day.

CELIA THAXTER.

* * * * *

LITTLE SPARROW.

    Touch not the little sparrow who doth build
    His home so near us.  He doth follow us,
    From spot to spot, amidst the turbulent town,
    And ne’er deserts us.  To all other birds
    The woods suffice, the rivers, the sweet fields,
    And Nature in her aspect mute and fair;
    But he doth herd with men.  Blithe servant! live,
    Feed, and grow cheerful! on my window’s ledge
    I’ll leave thee every morning some fit food
    In payment for thy service.

BARRY CORNWALL.

* * * * *

THE SWALLOW.

        A swallow in the spring
    Came to our granary, and beneath the eaves
    Essayed to make a nest, and there did bring
        Wet earth and straw and leaves.

        Day after day she toiled
    With patient art; but, ere her work was crowned,
    Some sad mishap the tiny fabric spoiled,
        And dashed it to the ground.

        She found the ruin wrought;
    But, not cast down, forth from the place she flew,
    And, with her mate, fresh earth and grasses brought,
        And built her nest anew.

        But scarcely had she placed
    The last soft feather on its ample floor,
    When wicked hands, on chance, again laid waste,
        And wrought the ruin o’er.

        But still her heart she kept,
    And toiled again; and last night, hearing calls,
    I looked,—­and, lo! three little swallows slept
        Within the earth-made walls.

        What truth is here, O man! 
    Hath hope been smitten in its early dawn? 
    Have clouds o’ercast thy purpose, truth, or plan? 
        Have faith, and struggle on!