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ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 



THE DANCE OF THE DAISIES. 



SO my pretty flower-folk, you 

 Are in a mighty flutter ; 

 All your nurse, the wind, can do, 

 Is to scold and mutter. 



' We intend to have a ball 



(That 's why we are fretting); 

 And our neighbor-flowers have all 

 Fallen to regretting. 



Many a butterfly we send 



Far across the clover. 

 (There '11 be wings enough to mend 



When the trouble's over.) 



' Many a butterfly comes home 



Torn with thorns and blighted, 

 Just to say they cannot come, 

 They whom we 've invited. 



Yes, the roses and the rest 

 Of the high-born beauties 



Are ' engaged,' of course, and pressed 

 With their stately duties. 



'They 're at garden-parties seen ; 



They 're at court presented : 

 They look prettier than the Queen ! 



(Strange that 's not resented.) 

 St. Nicholas, Attgust, 1889. 



" Peasant-flowers they call us we 



Whose high lineage you know 

 We, the ox-eyed children (see !) 

 Of Olympian Juno." 



(Here the daisies all made eyes ! 



And they looked most splendid, 

 As they thought about the skies, 



Whence they were descended.) 



" In our saintly island (hush !) 



Never crawls a viper, 

 Ho, there, Brown-coat ! that's the thrush: 

 He will be the piper. 



"In this Irish island, oh, 



We will stand together. 

 Let the royal roses go ; 

 We don't care a feather. 



Strike up, thrush, and play as though 

 All the stars were dancing. 



So they are ! And here we go 

 Isn't this entrancing?" 



"Swaying, mist-white, to and fro, 



Airily they chatter, 

 For a daisy dance, you know, 

 Is a pleasant matter. 



SARAH M. B. PIATT. 



HOW calm, how beautiful comes on 

 The stilly hour, when storms are gone; 

 When warring winds have died away, 

 And clouds, beneath the glancing ray, 

 Melt off, and leave the land and sea 

 Sleeping in bright tranquillity, 

 Fresh as if Day again were born, 

 Again upon the lap of Morn ! 

 When the light blossoms, rudely torn 

 And scattered at the whirlwind's will, 

 Hang floating in the pure air still, 

 Filling it all with precious balm, 



In gratitude for this sweet calm ; 

 And every drop the thunder-showers 

 Have left upon the grass and flowers 

 Sparkles, as 'twere that lightning-gem 

 Whose liquid flame is born of them ! 



When, 'stead of one unchanging breeze, 

 There blow a thousand gentle airs, 

 And each a different perfume bears, 



As if the loveliest plants and trees 

 Had vassal breezes of their own 

 To watch and wait on them alone, 

 And waft no other breath than theirs ! 



MOORE'S Lalla Rookh. 



