THE FERNS.

THE FERNS.
518.3

“Oh, what shall we do
The long winter through?”
The babyferns cried
When the mother-fern died.
The winds whistled bleak,
And the woodland was drear,
And on each baby-cheek
There glistened a tear.

Then down from a cloud,
Like a flutter of wings,
There came a great crowd
Of tiny white things.
They fell in a heap
Where the baby-ferns lay,
And put them to sleep
That bleak, stormy day.

Tucked under the snow
In their little brown hoods,
Not a thing will they know—-
These babes in the woods—-
Till some day in spring,
When the bobolinks sing,
They will open their eyes
To the bluest of skies.