The leaves, that rose in a flowing swell,
Grew faint and dim, then drooped and fell,
And the flower had flown away.

- Percival.

A CHILD TO A ROSE.

WHITE Rose, talk to me!

W

I don't know what to do.
Why do you say no word to me
Who say so much to you?
I'm bringing you a little rain,
And I shall feel so proud
If, when you feel it on your face,
You take me for a cloud.
Here I come so softly

You cannot hear me walking;

If I take you by surprise
I may catch you talking.

White Rose, are you tired
Of staying in one place?
Do you ever wish to see

The wild flowers, face to face?

Do you know the woodbines,

And the big brown-crested reeds?

Do you wonder how they live
So friendly with the weeds?
Have you any work to do

When you've finished growing?
Shall you teach your little buds
Pretty ways of blowing?

- Poems for a Child.

FORGET-ME-NOT.

WHEN to the flowers

WHEN

so beautiful

The Father gave a name,

Back came a little blue-eyed one

(All timidly it came)

And standing at its Father's feet,
And gazing in his face-

It said in low and trembling tones,
With sweet and gentle grace,

"Dear God, the name thou gavest me
Alas! I have forgot."

Then kindly looked the Father down,
And said, "Forget-me-not."

DOWN

DISCONTENT.

OWN in a field, one day in June,
The flowers all bloomed together,
Save one, who tried to hide herself,
And drooped — that pleasant weather.

A robin, who had flown too high
And felt a little lazy,

Was resting near the buttercup,
Who wished she were a daisy.

For daisies grow so trim and tall;
She always had a passion

For wearing frills around her neck,
In just the daisies' fashion.

Selected.

And buttercups must always be

The same old, tiresome color,

While daisies dress in gold and white,
Although their gold is duller.

"Dear robin," said this sad young flower,

Perhaps you'd not mind trying

To find a nice white frill for me

Some day, when you are flying."

"You silly thing," the robin said, "I think you must be crazy; I'd rather be my honest self Than any made-up daisy.

K

"You're nicer in your own bright gown;
The little children love you;

Be the best buttercup you can,
And think no flower above you.

"Though swallows leave me out of sight,
We'd better keep our places.
Perhaps the world would all go wrong,
With one too many daisies.

"Look bravely up into the sky,
And be content with knowing

That God wished for a buttercup
Just here, where you are growing."

- Susan Coolidge.

GREAT-GRANDMOTHER'S GARDEN.

COM

`OME into great-grandmother's garden, my dears,
The Sunflowers are nodding and beckoning away,
The Balsams are smilingly drying their tears,
And fair Morning-glories are greeting the day.
How pure is the breath of the old-fashioned Pinks!
How modest the face of the Lady's Delight!
Sweet William his arm with Miss Lavender's links,
And whispers, "I dream of you morn, noon, and night."
The Dahlia looks on with a queenly repose,

Unheeding the Coxcomb's impertinent sighs,
And fierce Tiger-lily an angry look throws
At Bachelor's Button, who praises her eyes.

The red Prince's Feather waves heavy and slow
By Marigolds rich as the crown of a king;
The Larkspur the humming-bird sways to and fro ;
Above them the Hollyhocks lazily swing.

Come, Four-o-clocks, wake from your long morning nap!
The late China Asters will soon be astir;
The Sweet Pea has ordered a simple green cap -
Which the Poppy considers too common for her.
There's Southernwood, Saffron, and long Stripèd Grass;
The pale Thimbleberries, the Sweet-brier brush;
An odor of Catnip floats by as we pass-

Be careful! nor grandmamma's Chamomile crush. Come into great-grandmother's garden, my dears ; The Sunflowers are nodding and beckoning away · The real grandma's garden is gone years and years, We have only a make-believe garden to-day.

—M. J. Jacques — St. Nicholas.

HIG

THE POPPY.

[IGH on a bright and sunny bed
A scarlet poppy grew;

And up it held its staring head,

And thrust it full in view.

Yet no attention did it win
By all these efforts made,
And less unwelcome had it been
In some retired shade.

For though within its scarlet breast
No sweet perfume was found,
It seemed to think itself the best
Of all the flowers around.

From this I may a hint obtain,
And take great care indeed,
Lest I appear as pert and vain
As is this gaudy weed.

-Jane Taylor.

CHORUS OF THE FLOWERS.

I

AM the honeysuckle,

With my drooping head,

And early in the springtime
I don my dress of red.
I grow in quiet woodlands,
Beneath some budding tree;
So when you take a ramble

Just look at me.