ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 



' On him may never shadow fall, 



When fever racks his throbbing brow, 

 And his last shilling buy a rope 



To hang him on my highest bough ! " 



She spoke; the morning's herald beam 



Sprang from the bosom of the sea, 

 And every mangled sprite returned 



In sadness to her wounded tree. 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 



WAITING FOR THE MAY. 



FROM out his hive there came a bee ; 

 " Has spring-time come or not ? " said he. 

 Alone within a garden bed 

 A small, pale snowdrop raised its head. 



" Tis March, this tells me," said the bee ; 



" The hive is still the place for me ; 

 The day is chill, although 'tis sunny, 

 And icy cold this snowdrop's honey." 



Again came humming forth the bee, 

 " What month is with us now ? " said he. 

 Gay crocus-blossoms, blue and white 

 And yellow, opened to the light. 



" It must be April," said the bee, 



" And April's scarce the month for me. 



I'll taste these flowers (the day is sunny), 



And wait before I gather honey." 



Once more came out the waiting bee. 

 " Tis come ; I smell the spring ! " said he. 

 The violets were all in bloom ; 

 The lilac tossed a purple plume. 



The daffodil wore a yellow crown ; 

 The cherry tree a snow-white gown ; 

 And by the brookside, wet with dew; 

 The early wild wake-robins grew. 



" It is the May-time," said the bee ; 



" The queen of all the months for me ; 

 The flowers are here, the sky is sunny, 

 Tis now the time to gather honey." 



