The little sandpipers about him play,
The shining waves they skim,
Or round his feet they seek their food, and stay
As if to comfort him.
My pity cannot help him, though his plaint
Brings tears of wistfulness;
Still must he grieve and mourn, forlorn and faint,
None may his wrong redress.
O bright-eyed boy! was there no better way
A moment's joy to gain
Than to make sorrow that must mar the day
With such despairing pain?
O children, drop the gun, the cruel stone!
Oh, listen to my words,
And hear with me the wounded curlew moan--
Have mercy on the birds!
CELIA THAXTER.
THE SANDPIPER.
Across the narrow beach, we flit,
One little sandpiper and I;
And fast I gather, bit by bit,
The scattered driftwood bleached and dry.
The wild waves reach their hands for it,
The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,
As up and down the beach we flit,--
One little sandpiper and I.
I watch him as he skims along,
Uttering his faint and mournful cry;
He starts not at my fitful song,
Or flash of fluttering drapery;
He has no thought of any wrong,
He scans me with a fearless eye,--
Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong,
The little sandpiper and I.
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