Whom meet we, Betsey, in the wood?The Lady Pheasant and her Brood;So stand we still, to let them passOn oak-leaves through the tasselled grass. Down dappled aisles of hazel shadeThey disappear along the glade,My Lady in her rusty gown,Ten children clad in useful brown. But one fledged laggard stops to eatThe plantain seeds at Betsey’s feet,Who plucks my fingers: “Mother, comeWe’ll pick him up and take him home!” The nestling joins the hidden nineDeep in the copse; and I lift mineAnd bear her home along the lane,—“I want him!” still pouts Betsey-Jane. — Helen Parry EdenContinue reading
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