(A fable for the diffident)

A Cuckoo, winging toward the Town
Of Tutinghorn,
Espied a Wren that fluttered down
Upon a thorn;

And, lighting near, the silence broke
With eager words
Demanding how the village spoke
Of other birds.

" How talk they of the Nightingale? "
The Cuckoo cried.
" Her fame resounds through all the vale, "
The Wren replied.

" The Lark, " the Cuckoo hinted then,
" Wins equal praise? "
" Why, half the village, " chirped the Wren,
" Extol his lays. "

" Perhaps they laud the Robin, too? "
Quoth April's bird.
" The Robin? Well, perhaps a few, "
The Wren averred.

The Cuckoo paused. " What share have I
Of praise or blame? "
" Ah, " laughed the Wren, who cannot lie,
" None breathe your name. "

The Cuckoo huffed in wounded pride,
Away he flew.
" Then must I praise myself , " he cried;
" Cuckoo! Cuckoo! "