258 MINNESOTA STATE HORTICULTURAL SOCIETY. 
completely hides the little warblers from view that one who did not know 
might readily suppose the song to emanate from the tree itself; the cuckoo 
being the first to usher in the day with notes of praise, and the nightingale 
the last to close the song when twilight disappears. 
OUR POET FRIENDS. 
Ss. M. OWEN, MINNEAPOLIS. 
While in attendance upon the meetings of this society year after year, 
I have often thought that an occasional break in the serious earnestness 
that characterize the deliberations of this intensely practical organization 
would be welcomed by its members and visitors. The pursuit of horti- 
culture in this region is doubtless what Longfellow called life; it is earnest, 
it is real, and it is not surprising that the materialistic and unsentimental 
environment of orchard, garden and vineyard cannot be dissipated by the 
atmosphere of these gatherings, without an effort, at least. But the effort — 
is worth the trial, worth it in an economic sense, even, for surely it will in- 
spire you all to more enthusiastic and cheerful labor, and will make you 
ambitious to achieve grander results, if you are made to realize that you are 
engaged in the promotion of a cause that has ever been near to the hearts 
and foremost in the minds of the best and brightest men and women the 
world has known. The time never was when fruit and flower did not refine 
and exalt mankind, and those results of husbandmen’s skill and toil always 
found sweet and eloquent champions and admirers, whose intellects were 
capable of clothing their appreciation and love in words that will live as 
long as letters are known. To some of these words, some of these immortal 
offerings laid upon the altars that the members of this society are doing 
so much to sanctify and still further adorn, I propose to call your attention, 
and I do it without apology, believing that ultimate good will come out of it. 
Who will not love flowers more tenderly and work among them more 
cheerfully when he thinks of them as— 
“Sweet letters of the angel tongue’’? 
Or when this is his creed: 
“For mine is the old belief, _ 
That midst your sweets and midst your bloom 
There is a soul in every leaf”? 
What pride must one feel in contributing to the birth of a flower that 
inspires such a thought as this in the pure mind of sweet-singing Shelly: 
“And the rose like a nymph to the bath undrest, 
Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, 
Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air, 
The soul of her beauty and love lay bare.” 
We dislike to see the frost on the late rose, but to the eyes of that most 
devoted of all flower lovers, Shakespeare, it looks like this: 
“Hoary- headed frosts 
Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose.’ 
