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75 



haired and dignified a dame as you sit and complacently 

 read, were you never guilty — Oh, ages ago — of weakly 

 tossing poor innocent marguerite away when you foresaw ^ 

 that she had it in her mind to proclaim long before you were 

 ready to admit it, "Seven, She loves," or maybe, "Eight, 

 They both love. " Come now, be honest; doesn't it even now 

 thrill you the least Httle bit in the world and carry you back 

 to the sacred days of "Rich man. Poor man. Beggar man, 

 Thief," and haunt you with memories of "London Bridge 

 is Falling Down, " and other classics ? 



In the days of long ago when knights were bold and Saxon 

 love was both young and strong, our little bright-petalled, 

 yellow-eyed friend had not so many to contest with her the 

 honours of the hour. Before Shakespeare wrote a Hne, — 

 and there was such a time you see, hard as it is to believe, — 

 gardens were as few as sidewalks, but every field and wood 

 smiled with flowers to be loved and stmg by the Chaucers 

 and Spensers and Lovelaces of their day; and among these 

 gifts of Flora we find our little favourite more than once 

 lauded high above its mates. t / // ; 



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** That well by reason men it call may 



The dayesye or elles the eye of day 

 The emperice and flour of flowers alle." 



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Granted, one must not expect everything to remain 

 unchanged. It would be but an unsuitable world today, for 

 we are well warned that, "he who has not the spirit of his age, 



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