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ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 



MAY TO APRIL. 



WITHOUT your showers, 

 I breed no flowers, 

 Each field a barren waste appears; 

 If you don't weep, 

 My blossoms sleep, 

 They take such pleasure in your tears. 



As your decay 



Made room for May, 

 So I must part with all that's mine, 



My balmy breeze, 



My blooming trees, 

 To torrid suns their sweets resign. 



For April dead 



My shade I spread, 

 To her I owe my dress so gay; 



Of daughters three 



It falls on me 

 To close our triumphs on one day. 



Thus to repose 



All nature goes; 

 Month after month must find its doom, 



Time on the wing, 



May ends the spring, 

 And summer frolics o'er her tomb. 



PHILIP FREXEAU. 



THE FLOWER. 



ONCE in a golden hour 

 I cast to earth a seed. 

 Up there came a flower, 



The people said a weed. 



To and fro they went 



Thro' my garden-bower, 



And muttering discontent, 



Cursed me and mv flower. 



Sow'd it far and wide 



By every town and tower, 

 Till all the people cried, 



"Splendid is the flower." 



Read my little fable; 



He that runs may read, 

 Most can raise the flowers now, 



For all have got the seed. 



Then it grew so tall 



It wore a crown of light, 

 But thieves from o'er the wall 



Stole the seed by night. 



And some are pretty enough, 

 And some are poor, indeed; 



And now again the people 

 Call it but a weed. 



TENNYSON. 



BIRD TRADES. 



THE swallow is a mason, 

 And underneath the eaves 

 He builds a nest and plasters it 

 With mud and hay and leaves. 



Of all the weavers that I know, 

 The oriole is the best ; 



High on the branches of the tree 

 She hangs her cosy nest. 



The woodpecker is hard at work 



A carpenter is he 

 And you may hear him hammering 



His nest high up a tree. 



Some little birds are miners; 



Some build upon the ground; 

 And busy little tailors too, 



Among the birds are found. 



