The final fledgling was not strong. He feared the great commotion and knew the flight was hard and long across the frozen ocean.
His heart was good, his head was hard, as hard as claw and beak. He knew the way. He’d trust the flock, but Oh! his wings were weak.
He fell behind and lost much air. He fell into the snow. How long his good heart fluttered there is not for us to know.
A well fed vixen chancing by with gentle mouth and kind removed him to a fresh warm pile a cow had left behind.
Within the pat he chanced to find some seeds for him to chew. Humidity and temp combined for a drink of morning dew
and with the dawn, his spirits high, the bird began to sing. But birdsong is, when winter’s nigh, a most unusual thing.
And so it was he met the cat who proved to be his bane, lifting him from the warm brown pat and playing a deadly game.
Now then, my child, remember it as long as you may be. Not all who drop you in the shit will be your enemy,
and not all those who pull you out will prove to be a friend, and this you’ll always hear me shout until your dying end:
If you are warm and feeling well and happy as can be
SHUT …………………………. UP!
Phyllis was the vixen