But the lily may flaunt, and the tulip stare, 

 For. what does the honest toadstool care? 



She does not glow in a painted vest, 

 And she never blooms on the maiden's breast; 

 But she comes, as the saintly sisters do, 

 In a modest suit of a Quaker hue. 

 And, when the stars in the evening skies 

 Are weeping dew from their gentle eyes, 

 The toad comes out from his hermit cell, 

 The tale of his faithful love to tell. 



Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



Five little white-heads peeped out of the mold, 

 When the dew was damp and the night was cold, 



And they crowded their way through the soil with pride : 

 "Hurrah! we are going to be mushrooms!" they 

 cried. 



But the sun came up, and the sun came down, 



And the little white -heads were withered and 

 brown : 



Long were their faces, their pride had a fall 

 They were nothing but toadstools, after all. 



Walter Learned. 



rt fn d&artiettg 



Nothing is more completely the child of Art than 



a Gar <* en - Sir Walter Scott. 



It is said that a garden should always be considered 

 simply and wholly as a work of art, and should not 

 be made to look like Nature. That is true enough. 

 Nothing, indeed, can be in worse taste than the land- 

 scape-gardener's imitations of Nature. But there is 

 another plan. If your garden be large enough you 

 can let Nature have her own way in certain parts of 

 it. This takes time, but the result is eminently de- 



% htfuL George Milner. 



