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I killed a robin. The little thing,
With scarlet breast and glossy wing,
That comes on the apple tree to sing.
I flung a stone as he twittered there,
I only meant to give him a scare,
But off it went—and hit him square.
A little flutter—a little cry—
Then on the ground I saw him lie,
I did n't think he was going to die.
But as I watched him I soon could see
He never would sing for you or me
Any more in the apple tree.
Never more in the morning light,
Never more in the sunshine bright,
Trilling his song in gay delight.
And I'm thinking every summer day,
How never, never can I repay
The little life I took away.
—Sydney Dayre.
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