secretary's report. 



I fool a very millionaire, 



Such wealth have I ! The earth and air 



Pay tribute to me everywhere. 



To feed me, Nature hangs her store 



Of summer fruit about my door. 



See where her loaded trees incline 



Their fruited boughs ; — to pluck is mine. 



I ask not how her plums unfold 



Their globes of purple and of gold. 



Nor how her sun-bright cherries grow, — 



Whether they toil and spin or no. 



Small thought have I ; I but outreach 



My hand, and lo ! the golden peach. 



Sweet with the sweetness of the south, 



Drops honeyed ripeness on my mouth ! 



Nature, kind mother, — I her heir, — 



She cares for me without my care. 



For me her rosy apples blush, 



Her perfumed pears grow sweet and lush. 



From every vine her fing-er drapes 



With green, she pulls me purple grapes ; 



She makes the ground I walk on sweet 



With blackberries beneath my feet I 



She plants my path with flowers ; she nods 



And smiles to me in golden-rods 



And painted buttercups ; she throws 



Kich odors round the musky rose ; 



Or, coyer grown, hides faint perfumes 



In violets and arbutus-blooms. 



And laughs, through all her realms, to see 



How sweet her breath is unto me ! 



She syllables in meadow-brooks 



And sunny glades and sylvan nooks, 



Lore such as never was in books ! 



Sweet priestess, too, — she reads to me 



Her liturgies from every tree ; 



She chants her solemn service where 



Her bluebells call to praise and prayer, 



