WHO FEEDS THE SPARROWS.
LITTLE brown sparrows upon the tree,
Sweetly chirping in your glee,
Where will you get your breakfast, this morn?
"Tu-wee! To-wee!
Tu-wee! To-wee!"
Frozen the meadows, this wintry day,
Not a worm nor a bug do I see.
Where will you get your dinner, at noon?
"Tu-wee! To-wee!
Tu-wee! To-wee!"
Not a crumb anywhere, nor a leaf;
Stripped of fruit is every tree.
Where will you get your supper, at night?
"Tu-wee! To-wee!
Tu-wee! To-wee!"
Then with a rush, with a whir of wings,
Every breast from worry free,
Rising they soar, and each one doth sing,
"My Heavenly Father,
He feedeth me!"
—Our Little Ones.