by Celia Thaxter

The farmer looked at his cherry tree,
With thick buds clustered on every bough;
"I wish I could beat the Robins," said he,
"If somebody would only show me how!

"I'll make a terrible scarecrow grim,
With threatening arms and with bristling head,
And up in the trees I'll fasten him
To frighten them half to death," he said.

He fashioned a scarecrow, tattered and torn —
Oh! 'twas a horrible thing to see!
And very early, one summer morn,
He set it up in his cherry tree.

The blossoms were white as the light sea foam;
The beautiful tree was a lovely sight;
But the scarecrow stood there so much at home
All the birds flew screaming away in a fright.

The Robins, who watched him every day,
Heads held aslant, keen eyes so bright!
Surveying the monster began to say,
"Why should this monster our prospects blight?

"He never moves round for the roughest weather,
He's a harmless, comical, tough old fellow;
Let's all go into the tree together,
For he won't budge till the fruit is mellow!"

So up they flew, and the sauciest pair
'Mid the shady branches peered and perked,
Selected a spot with the utmost care,
And all day merrily sang and worked.

And where do you think they built their nest?
In the scarecrow's pocket, if you please.
That, half-concealed on his ragged breast,
Made a charming covert of safety and ease.

By the time the cherries were ruby red,
A thriving family, hungry and brisk,.
The whole day long on the ripe fruit fed,
'Twas so convenient! They ran no risk!

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