Her yellow-beaks slept as sound as tops;
That day she had done her very best,
And had filled every one of their little crops.
She had filled her own just over-full,
And hence she was feeling a little dull.

"Oh, dear!" she sighed, as she sat with her head
Sunk in her chest, and no neck at all,
While her crop stuck out like a feather bed
Turned inside out, and rather small;
"What shall I do if things don't reform?
I don't know where there's a single worm.

"I've had twenty to-day, and the children five each,
Besides a few flies, and some very fat spiders:
No one will say I don't do as I preach --
I'm one of the best of bird-providers;
But where's the use? We want a storm --
I don't know where there's a single worm."

"There's five in my crop," said a wee, wee bird,
Which woke at the voice of his mother's pain;
"I know where there's five." And with the word
He tucked in his head, and went off again.
"The folly of childhood," sighed his mother,
"Has always been my especial bother."

The yellow-beaks they slept on and on --
They never had heard of the bogy To-morrow;
But the mother sat outside, making her moan --