By Mrs. Clara Doty Bates.
Whisk!—away in the sun
His little flying feet
Scamper as softly fleet
As ever the rabbits run.
He is gone like a flash, and then
In a breath is back again.
The silky flosses shine
Down to his very toes:
Tipped with white is his nose:
And his ears are fleeces fine,
Blowing a shadow-grace
Breeze-like about his face.
Quick to a whistled call
Hearkens his ready ear,
Scarcely waiting to hear;
Silk locks, white feet, all
Rush, like a furry elf
Tumbling over himself.
How does he sleep? He winks
Twice with his mischief eyes;
Dozes a bit; then lies
Down with a sigh; then thinks
Over some roguish play,
And is up and away!