He did n’t know much music When first he come along; An’ all the birds went wonderin’ Why he did n’t sing a song. They primped their feathers in the sun, An’ sung their sweetest notes; An’ music jest come on the run From all their purty throats! But still that bird was silent In summer time an’ fall; He jest set still an’ listened, An’ he would n’t sing at all! But one night when them songsters Was tired out an’ still, An’ the wind sighed down the valley An’ went creepin’ up the hill; When the stars was all a-tremble In the dreamin’ fields o’ blue, An’ the daisy in the darkness Felt the fallin’ o’ the dew,— There come a sound o’ melody No mortal ever heard, An’ all the birds seemed singin’ From the throat o’ one sweet bird! Then the other birds went Mayin’ In a land too fur to call; Fer there warn’t no use in stayin’ When one bird could sing fer all!
The Mocking-Bird
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