My clothes are soft and warm,

Fold upon fold,

But I'm so sorry for the poor

Out in the cold,

Dead in the cold, a song-singing thrush,
Dead at the foot of a snowberry bush,-
Weave him a coffin of rush,

Dig him a grave where the soft mosses grow,
Raise him a tombstone of snow.

I dug and dug amongst the snow,

And thought the flowers would never grow;

I dug and dug amongst the sand,

And still no green thing came to hand.

Melt, O snow! the warm winds blow
To thaw the flowers and melt the snow;
But all the winds from every land

Will rear no blossom from the sand.

A city plum is not a plum;

A dumb-bell is no bell, though dumb; A statesman's rat is not a rat;

A sailor's cat is not a cat;

A soldier's frog is not a frog;
A captain's log is not a log.

I'll nurse you on my knee, my knee,

My own little son;

I'll rock you, rock you, in my arms, My least little one.

inferior