STATE POMOLOGICAL SOCIETY. 93 



A love for flowers must lead to a love for good literature. Bry- 

 ant, Longfellow, Whittier, Emerson, Wardsworth a-nd Tennyson 

 are all apostles of Nature, and many whose names are unknown to 

 fame have bequeathed to us literary gems which must always be 

 associated with the flowers. 



The legend of the blue-eyed forget-me-not carries its own moral 

 lesson with it. 



"When to the flowers so beautiful, 



The Father gave a name, 



Back came a little blue-eyed one — 



All timidh' it carae 



And standino; at the Father's feet, 



And gjizing" in His face, 



It said, in low and trembling tones, 



And with a modest grace, 



'Eh^ar God, the name Thou gavest me, 



Alas! I have forgot.' 



The Father kindly looked Him down 



And said, 'Forget-me-not — ' " 



The old red schoolhouse over which so much sentiment has been 

 wasted was never a thing of beauty. It was usually located in an 

 out of the way place, on land not worth cultivation, cheaply con- 

 structed, to say nothing of its ornamentation. 



We sigh when we think even of what our tastes might have been 

 had our youthful educational environments been more suggestive 

 of beauty. 



Miss May's picture of the transition of the old red schoolhouse 

 we tiust does not a[)p!y to all. 



"I remember the old red schoolhouse 



On the other side of the stream, 

 Where we went to school together, Will, 



When life was like a dream. 



I went to the dear old schoolhouse. 



Only the other da)"-, 

 And I sat on the steps where we jumped the rope. 



But I did not care to stay. 



The blinds were closed, the glass was gone, 



And would you believe it, Will ! 

 They were turning round where our wits were ground, 



The wheels of a cider mill." 



It certainly is no advance in our civilization to turn the school- 

 house into a cider mill. It may be a more appropriate use for the 



