ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 



But let me often to these solitudes 

 Retire, and in thy presence reassure 

 My feeble virtue. * * * 



Be it ours to meditate, 

 In these calm shades, thy milder majesty, 

 And to the beautiful order of thy works 

 Learn to conform the order of our lives. 



W. C. BRYANT. 



GRASS. 



THE rose is praised for its beaming face, 

 The lily for saintly whiteness; 

 We iove this bloom for its languid grace, 

 And that for its airy lightness. 



We say of the oak, " How grand of girth ! " 



Of the willow we say '' How slender ! " 

 And yet to the soft grass, clothing earth, 



How slight is the praise we render ! 



But the grass knows well, in her secret heart, 



How we love her cool, green raiment ! 

 So she plays in silence her lovely part, 



And cares not at all for payment. 



Each year her buttercups nod and drowse, 



With sun and dew brimming over ; 

 Each year she pleases the greedy cows 



With oceans of honeyed clover. 



Each year on the earth's wide breast she waves 



From Spring until bleak November; 

 And then she remembers so many graves 



That no one else will remember. 



And while she serves us with goodness mute, 



In return for such sweet dealings 

 We tread her carelessly underfoot, 



Yet we never wound her feelings. 



Here's a lesson that he who runs may read : 



Though I fear but few have won it, 

 The best reward of a kindly deed 



Is the knowledge of having done it. 



EDGAR FAWCETT. 



