ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 



Buttercups' faces, 



Beaming and bright ; 

 Clovers, with bonnets 



Some red and some white ; 

 Daisies, their white fingers 



Half clasped in prayer; 

 Dandelions, proud of 



The gold of their hair; 



Innocents, children 



Guileless and frail, 

 Meek little faces 



Upturned and pale; 

 Wild-wood geraniums, 



All in their best, 

 Languidly leaning 



In purple gauze dressed ; 

 All are assembled, 



This sweet Sabbath day, 

 To' hear what the priest 



In his pulpit will say. 



WHITTIER. 



THE GOLDEN ROD. 



ALL hail the lovely golden rod, 

 The dusty roadside fringing ! 

 Midst grasses tall its gray crests nod, 

 The world with glory tingeing. 



Its fluffy blossoms manifold, 



The swampy meadows flecking, 

 Weave tapestry of cloth of gold, 



The fields with splendor decking. 



Along the dark old forest's edge 



The yellow plumes are streaming, 

 And through the thick and tangled hedge, 



The golden wands are gleaming. 



The lakeside slope is all aglow, 



Where golden rod is drooping, 

 Bright mirrored in the depths below 



In many a graceful grouping. 



EVA J. BEEDE. 



