THEY faced each other, taut and still;
Arched hickory, neck, and spine;
Heads down, tails straight, with hair of quill,
The fence--the battleline.
The slits within their eyes describe
The nature of their feud;
Each came to represent a tribe
Which never was subdued.
One minute just before they fought,
Before their blood called--"Time,"
One told the other what he thought
In words I cannot rhyme.
They hit each other in mid-air
In one terrific bound,
And even yet, as I'm aware,
They have not struck the ground.
IT took three weeks to make them friends--
The wren in fear the maid molest
Those six white eggs within the nest
She built up at the gable-end.
What fearful language might be heard
(If only English she could speak)
On every day of the first week,
All from the throat of that small bird!
The scolding died away, and then
The fear was followed by surprise