A photo log continued...

            Nest Eggs

By: Robert Louis Stevenson




Birds all the summer day

Flutter and quarrel

Here in the arbour-like

Tent of the laurel.

Here in the fork

The brown nest is seated;

For little blue eggs

The mother keeps heated.

While we stand watching her

Staring like gabies,

Safe in each egg are the

Bird's little babies.

Soon the frail eggs they shall

Chip, and upspringing

Make all the April woods

Merry with singing.

Younger than we are,

O children, and frailer,

Soon in the blue air they'll be,

Singer and sailor.

We, so much older,

Taller and stronger,

We shall look down on the

Birdies no longer.

They shall go flying

With musical speeches

High overhead in the

Tops of the beeches.

In spite of our wisdom

And sensible talking,

We on our feet must go

Plodding and walking.

Baby Robins Day Nine

Baby Robins Day Ten

Baby Robins Day Eleven

Baby Robins Day 12