The
rooks are building on the trees;
They build there every spring:
"Caw, caw," is all they say,
For none of them can sing.
They're up before
the break of day,
And up till late at night;
For they must labour busily
As long as it is light.
And many a crooked
stick they bring,
And many a slender twig,
And many a tuft of moss, until
Their nests are round and big.
"Caw, caw."
Oh, what a noise
They make in rainy weather!
Good children always speak by turns,
But rooks all talk together.
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