A little bird, with feathers brown,
Sat singing on a tree;
The song was very soft and low,
But sweet as it could be.
The people who were passing by
Looked up to see the bird
That made the sweetest melody
That they had ever heard.
But all the bright eyes looked in vain;
Birdie was very small,
And with his modest, dark-brown coat
He made no show at all.
“Why, Father,” asked a little girl,
“Where can the birdie be?
If I could sing a song like that,
I’d sit where folks could see.”
“I hope my little girl will learn
A lesson from the bird,
And try to do what good she can,
Not to be seen or heard.
“This birdie is content to sit
Unnoticed on the way,
And sweetly sing his Maker’s praise
From dawn to close of day.
“So live, my child, all through your life,
That, be it short or long
Though others may forget your looks
They’ll not forget your song.