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!"