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ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 



She has morning's golden beam 



Prisoned in her flying tresses ; 

 And the evening's rosy gleam 



Still her cheek expresses. 



Now the dimpled arms aloft, 



Shouting to the birds above her; 

 Chanting now in carols soft, 



Of the hearts that love her. 



Geraldine, with lips of flame, 



Thou shalt be a fuchsia, bending 

 Graceful near the ivy frame ; 



Strength and frailness blending. 



Autumn dropped thee from his sheaves, 



Through his harvest lately roaming: 

 Spring returns for what he leaves ; 



Bow we to her coming. 



ELIZA L. SPROAT. 



ROSES. 



OH, the queen of all the roses it cannot be denied 

 Is the heavy crimson rose of velvet leaf; 

 There is such a gracious loyalty about her vivid bloom, 

 That among all charming kindred she is chief. 



Then the fainter-shaded roses, in their balmy damask pride, 



Group like satellites about one central star, 

 Royal princesses, of whom we can discover at a glance, 



What aristocrats the dainty creatures are. 



Then those tender, gauzy roses, clustered closely on their views, 



They are gentle maids of honor I am told ; 

 But the pompous yellow roses, they are sneered at, it is said, 



For so showing off the color of their gold. 



And the roses that are powerless to boast of any tint, 



Unsullied as the snow itself in hue, 

 These are pious nuns, I fancy, who perhaps may murmur prayers 



Very softly upon rosaries of dew. 



But the delicate pink roses that one meets in quiet lanes, 

 Gleaming pale upon a back-ground of clear green, 



Why, these are only peasant girls who never go to court, 

 But are royal little subjects to the queen. 



EDGAR FAWCETT. 



