BADGERS

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When each day is almost past,
And its light is fading fast,
That's when badgers start to play,
When night is overtaking day.

They scranble gaily round the trees,
And sniff the gently blowing breeze,
And run about the grassy ground,
And prick their ears at each new sound.

But later on, when gleaming stars
Are twinkling high above their heads,
They think about their cosy beds,
Deep beneath the soft cool earth.

For when the day has nearly come,
And dawn is glowing in the sky,
The little badgers swiftly run
To their caverns warm and dry,
To sleep and sleep until the night,
Safe and sound and out of sight.

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