By Anna and Nancy Lisi
Cover photo: Wikipedia commons link
Atop the homemade hutch of wood,
A beautiful pheasant proudly stood.
Stuffed so he could be admired,
With eyes of glass that never tire.
The little girl’s job each day,
Was to dust the cobwebs away;
And expose the colors on his head,
Long curve of feathers, gracefully spread.
How did Uncle come to be,
In possession of such a fine bird as he?
Her Auntie sat her at the table,
Told her the truth, was not a fable.
“You know your Uncle’s sure of shot,
And always keeps meat in our pot.
Catches deer and rabbit, yes he can,
And pheasants, plentiful in our land.”
One day when hunting by the Mon,
A pheasant ran, and then was gone.
When it flew up, Pete took his aim,
For Fran’s pot pie, the best they claim.
Our dog Cecil fetched him there,
And Pete perused his feather’s fair.
Unlike any ringneck he’d ever seen,
Along the fields and by the stream.
The long arched tail was striking blue,
Head of gold, a gorgeous hue.
We knew he’d found a prize so rare,
He preserved the remains with such great care.
This was the bird the niece dusted off,
Now curious, as she shook her cloth.
A changeling she thought, above the rest,
As she admired their feathered guest.
‘Til an afternoon, when a neighbor came,
For a cordial visit, down Schroyers Lane.
Stepped into the kitchen and looked up,
His mouth agape, his heart ’bout stopped.
There, upon the homemade hutch,
Was his pet bird he loved so much.
His golden pheasant had escaped his fence,
After shipping from China, at much expense.
“Oscar!” he cried, and left in a hurry,
As Pete and Fran began to scurry;
To cover the lunch for him they’d made,
Pheasant pot pie and lemonade.
The little girl dusted the beautiful bird,
Day after day, never saying a word.
They’d lost a friend, was such a shame,
But at least they knew, Oscar had a name.
Musicalhossgal 