A Retort From the Catbird

I heard the Catbird in the bush
With breathless ecstasy;
No bobolink or fluttering thrush
Made carol sweet as he.

It bubbled like a mountain rill
Drenching the weary day,
With eddying turn and rippling trill,
A magic roundelay.

I heard the Catbird once again.
A harsh, discordant note,
Which pierced the shuddering ear with pain,
Came from the selfsame throat.

O bird perverse! That heavenly voice
Tuned to so sharp a key!
Why cease to make the air rejoice
Debasing minstrelsy?

Why not be ever at your best?
Again the peevish mew
Answering, accusing me with zest:
“Are you?” he cried, “are y-o-u?”

Abbie Farwell Brown.