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ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 



OLD-FASHIONED FLOWERS. 



WHERE are the sweet old-fashioned posies, Morning-glories, tints of purple 

 Quaint in form and bright in hue, Stretched on tints of creamy white, 



Such as grandma gave her lovers, Folding up their satin curtains 



When she walked the garden through ? Inward through the dewy night. 



Lavender, with spikes of azure, 

 Pointing to the dome on high, 



Telling thus whence came its color, 

 Thanking with its breath the sky. 



Four-o'clock, with heart unfolding, 

 When the loving sun had gone, 



Streak and stain of running crimson, 

 Like the light of early dawn. 



Regal lilies, many petaled, 



Like the curling drifts of snow, 



With their crown of golden antlers 

 Poised on malachite below. 



Marigold, with coat of velvet, 



Streaked with gold and yellow lace, 



With its love for summer sunlight 

 Written on its honest face. 



Dainty pink, with feathered petals, 



Tinted, curled and deeply frayed, 

 With its calyx heart half broken, 



On its leaves uplifted laid. 

 ***** 



Will the modern florist's triumph 

 Look so fair or smell so sweet, 



As those dear old-fashioned posies, 



Blooming round our grandma's feet? 

 ETHEL LYNX. 



A MAY SONG. 



A MERRY little maiden 

 In the merry month of May, 

 Came tripping o'er the meadow 

 As she sang this merry lay: 



1 I'm a merry little maiden, 



My heart is light and gay, 

 And I love the sunny weather 

 In the merry month of May. 



FOR A LITTLE ONE. 



" I love the little birdies 



That sport along my way, 

 And sing their sweet and merry songs 

 In the merry month of May. 



" I love my little sisters 



And my brothers every day; 

 But I seem to love them better 

 In the merry month of May." 



MERRY SPRING. 



M 



ERRY spring, 

 Will you bring 



Back the little birds to sing? 

 I am sad; 

 Make me glad, 

 Gentle, merry, laughing spring. 



Mother said, 

 " They're not dead 

 Only sleeping in their bed; 

 When spring rain 

 Comes again, 

 Each one lifts its tiny head.' 



Winter's snow 



Had to go 

 From the hills and vales below; 



Then the showers 



Made the flowers 

 Over all the hillsides grow. 



