Good-morrow, new world, have you nothing 



to give? 

 Good-bye, old world, good-bye. 



Duncan Campbell Scott. 



Flower Dreams 



The sleeping earth, with thick white veil, 

 By winter's hand is covered o'er; 



She waits in slumber still and pale, 

 Till spring awaken her once more. 



As without care the weary child 



Nestles upon its mother's breast, 



So sleep the flowers, earth's children mild, 

 Close to her frost-bound bosom pressed. 



They dream of breezes blowing fair, 

 Of sunshine and of sparkling dews, 



Of fragrant odors sweet and rare, 



Of waving woods and springtime hues. 



Each dreaming flower lifts up its head 

 To view the splendor far and near; 



When lo! the lovely dream has fled, 

 And, verily, the spring is here! 



Anonymous. 



dffat&eng of tye *a>oul 



A Garden! The word is in itself a picture, and 

 what pictures it reveals ! All through the days of 

 childhood the garden is our fairy-ground of sweet 

 enchantment and innocent wonder. From the first 

 dawn of thought when we learned our simple les- 

 sons of Eden and its loss, and seemed to see the 

 thornless garden, watered with clear streams, beauti- 

 ful with spreading trees, and the train of unnamed 

 beasts and birds meekly passing before their spotless 

 lord ; and then beyond ; far onward to that other 



