Six pretty brown birds, all in a row,
Hopping along on top of the snow;

Brave little fellows who ne’er flew away
When the winds became keen and the skies became gray.

Where do they hide, and where do they sleep,
That safe from Jack Frost they manage to keep?

For down to this spot as sure as the sun
They come every day when the chickens are done.

These never eat all of their meal up quite clean,
And many sweet morsels the little guests glean;

Till so smooth, and so round, and so plump they have grown,
They can laugh at the birds that have far away flown.

Now Katie the cook, who bakes and who brews,
Says little brown birds make very good stews.

Cruel old Katie! I’d starve — would n't you ?—
Before I would eat any one of the crew.