FREAKS OF FASHION.

Such a hubbub in the nests,

Such a bustle and squeak!

Nestlings, guiltless of a feather,

Learning just to speak,

Ask — “And how about the fashions?”

From a cavernous beak.

Perched on bushes, perched on hedges,

Perched on firm hahas,

Perched on anything that holds them,

Gay papas and grave mammas

Teach the knowledge-thirsty nestlings:

Hear the gay papas.

Robin says: “A scarlet waistcoat

Will be all the wear,

Snug, and also cheerful-looking

For the frostiest air,

Comfortable for the chest too

When one comes to plume and pair.”

“Neat gray hoods will be in vogue,”

Quoth a Jackdaw: “Glossy gray,

Setting close, yet setting easy,

Nothing fly-away;

Suited to our misty mornings,

A la negligée.”

Flushing salmon, flushing sulphur,

Haughty Cockatoos

Answer — “Hoods may do for mornings,

But for evenings choose

High head-dresses, curved like crescents,

Such as well-bred persons use.”

“Top-knots, yes; yet more essential

Still, a train or tail,”

Screamed the Peacock: “Gemmed and lustrous

Not too stiff, and not too frail;

Those are best which rearrange as

Fans, and spread or trail.”

Spoke the Swan, entrenched behind

An inimitable neck:

“After all, there's nothing sweeter

For the lawn or lake

Than simple white, if fine and flaky

And absolutely free from speck.”

“Yellow,” hinted a Canary,

“Warmer, not less distingué.”

“Peach color,” put in a Lory,

“Cannot look outré.”

“All the colors are in fashion,

And are right,” the Parrots say.

“Very well. But do contrast

Tints harmonious,”

Piped a Blackbird, justly proud

Of bill aurigerous;

“Half the world may learn a lesson

As to that from us.”

Then a Stork took up the word:

“Aim at height and chic:

Not high heels, they're common; somehow,

Stilted legs, not thick,

Nor yet thin:” he just glanced downward

And snapped to his beak.

Here a rustling and a whirring,

As of fans outspread,

Hinted that mammas felt anxious

Lest the next thing said

Might prove less than quite judicious,

Or even underbred.

So a mother Auk resumed

The broken thread of speech:

“Let colors sort themselves, my dears,

Yellow, or red, or peach;

The main points, as it seems to me,

We mothers have to teach,

“Are form and texture, elegance,

An air reserved, sublime;

The mode of wearing what we wear

With due regard to month and clime.

But now, let's all compose ourselves,

It's almost breakfast-time.”

A hubbub, a squeak, a bustle!

Who cares to chatter or sing

With delightful breakfast coming?

Yet they whisper under the wing:

“So we may wear whatever we like,

Anything, everything!”