SEPTEMBER.

HE goldenrod is yellow;

THE

The corn is turning brown;
The trees in apple orchards
With fruit are bending down.

The gentian's bluest fringes
Are curling in the sun;
In dusty pods the milkweed
Its hidden silk has spun.

The sedges flaunt their harvest,
In every meadow nook;
And asters by the brook-side
Make asters in the brook.

From dewy lanes at morning
The grapes' sweet odors rise;
At noon the roads all flutter
With yellow butterflies.

By all these lovely tokens
September days are here,

With summer's best of weather,
And autumn's best of cheer.

- Helen Hunt Jackson.

TEL

GOLDENROD.

ELL me, sunny goldenrod,
Growing everywhere,

Did fairies come from fairyland
And make the dress you wear?

Did you get from mines of gold
Your bright and shining hue?
Or did the baby stars some night
Fall down and cover you?

Or did the angels wave their wings
And drop their glitter down
Upon you, laughing goldenrod,
Your nodding head to crown?

Or are you clad in sunshine

Caught from summer's brightest day,

To give again in happy smiles
To all who pass your way?

I love you, laughing goldenrod,
And I will try, like you,

To fill each day with deeds of cheer;

Be loving, kind, and true.

- Mrs. F. J. Lovejoy

GOLDENROD.

OW in the world did I happen to bloom

"H°

All by myself, alone

By the side of a dusty country road,

With only a rough old stone

"For company?" And the golden-rod,

As she drooped her yellow head,

66

Gave a mournful sigh. Who cares for me,

Or knows I'm alive?" she said.

"A snow-white daisy I'd like to be,
Half hid in the cool green sod;

Or a pink spiræa, or a sweet wild rose
But I'm only a goldenrod!

"

'Nobody knows that I'm here, nor cares
Whether I live or die!

Lovers of beautiful flowers, who wants
Such a common thing as I?"

But all of a sudden she ceased her plaint;
For a child's voice cried in glee,
"Here's a dear, little, lovely goldenrod !
Did you bloom on purpose for me?

"Down by the brook the tall spiraa
And the purple asters nod,

And beckon to me - but more than all
Do I love you, goldenrod!"

She raised the flower to her rosy lips,
And merrily kissed its face.

"Ah! now I see," said the goldenrod,

"How this is the very place

"That was meant for me; and I'm glad I bloomed

Just here by the road alone,

With nobody near for company

But a dear old mossy stone!"

- Selected

M

IN SEPTEMBER.

[ORNINGS frosty grow, and cold,
Brown the grass on hill and wold;
Crows are cawing sharp and clear
When the rustling corn grows sere;
Mustering flocks of blackbirds call,
Here and there a few leaves fall,
In the meadows larks sing sweet,
Chirps the cricket at our feet,
In September.

Noons are sunny, warm, and still,
A golden haze o'erhangs the hill,
Amber sunshine's on the floor
Just within the open door.

Still the crickets call and creak,
Never found, though long we seek;
Oft comes faint report of gun,
Busy flies buzz in the sun,
In September.

Evenings chilly are, and damp,
Early lighted is the lamp;
Fire burns, and kettle sings,
Smoke ascends in thin blue rings;
On the rug the children lie,
In the west the soft lights die,
From the elms a robin's song

Rings out sweetly, lingers long,
In September.

-Sunday Afternoon.

THE SPIRIT OF THE SUNSET.

WHEN

WHEN the aster wakes in the morning,
In these sweet autumn days,

She sees the sumach burning,

And the maples in a blaze,
And she rubs her eyes, bewildered,
All in the golden haze.

Then: "No, they still are standing;
They're not on fire at all".

She softly says, when slowly
She sees some crimson fall,
And yellow flakes come floating
Down from the oaks so tall.

And then she knows the spirit
Of the sunset must have planned
The myriad bright surprises

That deck the dying land,

And she wonders if the sumach

And the maples understand.

GENTIAN.

'N spring I found the violet
And rosy Mayflowers sweet;
And next, white-fingered daisy
Was courtesying at my feet;

Then wild rose swung her censer,
And, in a secret hour,

The lonely meadow flamed abroad
With gorgeous cardinal flower.

Selected