Vol. XIV 



AUGUST, 1904. 



No. 8 



A PICTURE WANTED. 



THEY tell me you are au artist 

 Who can paint on the canvas 

 white 

 Pictures of scenes you nevei" saw, 



In colors of shade and light. 

 If you can do this, good painter, 



I would have you make for me, 

 A scene of my father's hill-farm, 

 Where the winds blew loud and free. 



The house was large and pleasant, 

 Near the road tall Balsams fair, 



And a Thorn Apple tree, and Locusts, 

 Were stirred by the balmy air. 



At the corner, near the doorway. 

 Aglow with color bright. 

 Grew a bush of Honeysuckle, 

 With blossoms pink and white. 



And close by my mother's window, 



In beauty and fragrant bloom. 

 Stood a bush of yellow Roses, 



Whose sweet breath filled the room. 

 And Roses red and blush and white. 



And Lily bells fair to see. 

 With a bed of purple Pansies 



I want you to paint for me. 



The Cherry trees that each summer 



Bore luscious fruit and sweet. 

 Grew south of the house, and in 

 springtime 

 Oast their white bloom at our feet. 

 The meadows were near and the corn- 

 field, 

 While the woods not far away, 



Was the home of the birds whose 

 music 

 We heard at the break of day. 



And down past the barns, through the 

 orchard. 

 And the lane, o'er the nny brook. 

 Which flowed with a pleasant mur- 

 mur, 

 My way I often took. 

 Down the hill and through the valley. 

 Where the red wild Strawberries 

 grew. 

 And the Willows droop over the 

 streamlets, 

 I wandered long ago. 



Gathering flowers in the woodland. 



Blue and white Violets rare. 

 And the Ferns which grew by the 

 brookside. 



And yellow Cowslips fair. 

 Be siu-e that these are pictured. 



And paint them in colors bright, 

 That shall make the dim old forest 



Seem radiant with bloom and light. 



There's the house, and the road, and 

 the Thorntree, 



The Balsams and Locusts tall. 

 And the Roses and Honeysuckles, 



Which grew by the eastern wall; 

 The Cherry trees and the meadows. 



The cornfields and orchards old; 

 If you paint all these and the forest. 



It Avill be more to me than gold. 



—Park's Floral Magazine. 



