ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 



DISCONTENT. 



DOWN in a field, one day in June, 

 The flowers all bloomed together, 

 Save one, who tried to hide herself, 



And drooped, that pleasant weather. 



A robin who had flown too high, 



And felt a little lazy, 

 Was resting near this buttercup 



Who wished she were a daisy; 



For daisies grow so trig and tall ! 



She always had a passion 

 For wearing frills around her neck, 



In just the daisies' fashion. 



And buttercups must always be 

 The same old tiresome color; 



While daisies dress in gold and white, 

 Although their gold is duller. 



" Dear robin," said this sad young flower, 



" Perhaps you'd not mind trying 

 To find a nice white frill for me, 



Some day when you are flying ? " 



" You silly thing ! " the robin said, 



" I think you must be crazy; 

 I'd rather be my honest self 

 Than any made-up daisy. 



" You're nicer in your own bright gown; 



The little children love you: 

 Be the best buttercup you can, 



And think no flower above you. 



" Though swallows leave me out of sight, 



We'd better keep our places: 

 Perhaps the world would all go wrong 

 With one too many daisies. 



Look bravely up into the sky, 



And be content with knowing 



That God wished for a buttercup 



Just here, where you are growing." 



SARA O. JEWETT. 



UNITED, 



\ SUMACH tall, 

 \ By a garden wall, 



Bloomed through the summer air; 

 Within there grew, 

 Of every hue, 



Flowers exceeding fair. 



The sumach burned, 

 When the dahlia turned 



Her laughing face of gold, 

 To where he stood, 

 By the rough dogwood, 



Outside of the garden fold. 



An outcast he,' 



Yet. tenderly 

 He loved the garden queen, 



And well she knew, 



So close they grew, 

 With but a wall between. 



What mattered birth ? 



The selfsame earth 

 Had nursed their infant seed; 



But custom said: 

 ' Xo flower should wed 

 A rough, plebeian weed." 



One chilly night, 



The frost king's blight, 



Fell over woods and farms; 

 Next day, quite dead, 

 The dahlia's head 



Lay in the sumach's arms. 



HELEN F. O'NEILL. 



