THE MOLE AND THE ROBIN by Henry C. M'Cook

International Tract and Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Jan 13, 1887

THE MOLE AND THE ROBIN.

By Henry C. M'Cook

A MOLE, who had been hunting earth-worms all day, stopped at the door of his long, dark tunnel, and listened to the evening song of the robin. The bird was perched upon a clump of golden-rod, close by the mole's run, whistling notes of praise.

"Who are you?" asked the mole.

"I am robin redbreast," was the answer; "one of the great bird family."

"You sing very sweetly," said the mole.

"Ah! that is nothing," the robin replied. "Have you never heard the morning concert of the birds, Mr. Mole?"

"Concert! I know of no such thing," was the mole's response.

"You surprise me!" exclaimed the redbreast. "How can you have lived so long in these parts, and not have heard the morning praise of the birds? You have much to learn, I assure you. Why, the air and trees are full of birds, who float and sing in the early sunlight, and soar away into the heavens. Our mother earth has many other beautiful things; there are gay flowers of many colors and sweet fragrance; there are green grass, waving boughs, and luscious fruits; there are blue skies, golden, white, and rosy clouds, nodding forests, sloping hills, and myriads of painted insects sporting in the sun. But there is nothing fairer to my eyes than the birds, the beautiful birds!"

So saying, robin flew to the very top of the golden-rod, and as he rocked back and forth, whistled loudly the notes of his song.

"What are you saying?" cried the mole. "I do not believe it! There are no such things as those you tell of. Flowers and clouds, forsooth! Insects, forests, and concerts of birds—it is incredible! I never saw them, I never heard them, and I am an old mole, and am counted a wise one, too; for I have burrowed long and far, with scientific skill, beneath the ground."

"Dear me!" whistled the robin merrily. "That is no proof at all; for earth has a life more lovely and wonderful above its surface than beneath."

"Nay, nay!" laughed the mole scornfully. "I have burrowed all my life, and know and affirm that earth produces nothing but fishing-worms!"

"Poor, blind mole!" said the robin, and flew away toward the setting sun.

"Poor, deluded bird!" squeaked the mole, and ran back into his burrow.—Henry C. M'Cook.