Three Little Birds by Ellen Eigner

Martin Quail was born in the springtime.   His crib was next to a white paned window, often open, gentle breezes blew the crisp white curtains.  He would smile at the rising sun. Three little birds would sing to him, melodies pure and true. He would giggle and coo and reach out to them.  They would flit and flutter, as if dancing for his benefit.

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