On the ground lived a Hen,
          In a tree lived a Wren,
Who picked up her food here and there ;
          While Biddy had wheat
          And all nice things to eat
Said the Wren, " I declare, ' tisn't fair !

          " It is really too bad ! "
          She exclaimed — she was mad —
" To go out when it's raining this way!
          And to earn what you eat,
          Doesn't make your food sweet ,
In spite of what some folks may say.

          " Now, there is that Hen, "
          Said this cross little Wren,
" She's fed till she's fat as a drum ;
          While I strive and sweat
          For each bug that I get,
And nobody gives me a crumb.

          " I can't see for my life
          Why the old farmer's wife.
Treats her so much better than me.
          Suppose on the ground
          I hop carelessly round
For awhile, and just see what I'll see. "

          Said this cute little Wren,
          " I'll make friends with the Hen,
And perhaps she will ask me to stay;
          And then upon bread
          Every day I'll be fed,
And life will be nothing but play. "

          So down flew the Wren,
          " Stop to tea, " said the Hen ;
And soon Biddy's supper was sent ;
          But scarce stopping to taste,
          The poor bird left in haste,
And this was the reason she went :

          When the farmer's kind dame
          To the poultry yard came,
She said -and the Wren shook with fright —
          " Biddy's so fat she'll do
          For a pie or a stew ,
And I guess I shall kill her to- night. "