THE song-sparrow has a joyous note,
The brown thrush whistles bold and free ;
But my little singing-bird at home
Sings a sweeter song to me.

The cat-bird, at morn or evening, sings
With liquid tones like gurgling water ;
But sweeter by far, to my fond ear,
Is the voice of my little daughter.

Four years and a half since she was born,
The blackcaps piping cheerily,—
And so, as she came in winter with them,
She is called our Chieadee.

She sings to her dolls, she sings alone,
And singing round the house she goes,—
Out-doors or within, her happy heart
With a childlike song o’erflows.

Her mother and I, though busy, hear,—
With mingled pride and pleasure listening,—
And thank the inspiring Giver of song.
While a tear in our eye is glistening.

Oh ! many a bird of sweetest song
I hear, when in woods or meads I roam ;
But sweeter by far than all, to me,
Is my Chicadee at home.