and tonic properties it has no effect what- early, before the seeds are sufficiently 



ever. Using- taraxacum preparations for mature to germinate. For medicinal use 



a considerable length of time causes di- the roots are gathered in March, July 



g-estive disorders, mental excitement, ver- and November, cleaned, the larger roots 



tigo, coated tongue and nausea. cut longitudinally, dried and packed to 



In lawns the plant proves a great nui- be shipped to points of consumption. The 



sance, as it displaces the grass, and it is juice expressed from the fresh roots is 



difficult to exterminate. The plants also used. 



must be dug up, roots and all, carted Albert Schneider. 



awav and burned. This should be done 



FROM SPRING TO RIVULET. 



Still dances the brook with its murmurs gay, 

 Dowui through the woods and under the way, 

 Splashing o'er rocks, — through meadow agleam, 

 To lose itself in the larger stream. 

 It passes a laugh with ferns that peer 

 To see their forms in its waters clear; 

 It meets a rock, and dashes spray 

 At moss and lichens that light its gray; 

 And yet, as it nears where violets hide 

 'Neath soughing pines, its waters glide 

 With hardly a sound, lest the tender flower 

 Should feel, in its haste, too hard a shower. 

 But ever it sings, be it night or day. 

 Year after year, in the selfsame way, 



''Here I tinkle, and there I dash, 



I ripple, I murmur, I gaily splash; 



Such a mad, such a glad little brook am I, 

 \ Singing along 'neath a summer sky!" 



But just as gay as it is in June 



Is the brook as it sings its winter tune. 



Jack Frost makes his call, — and droop the ferns ; 



Again and again the sprite returns, 



Till over the pool beneath the pines 



A magical covering gleams and shines. 



Now hide and seek does the brooklet play, 



For it dashes forth once more on its way. 



Again to be hidden beneath the snow, 



That gives no hint of the songster below. 



But the grand old trees that love it well, 



y\nd the winter bird, — they both can tell 



That eveu it sings, as it sang of old, 



When winds are bleak and days are cold, 



"Here I tinkle, and there I dash, 



T ripple, T murmur, T Qaily splash; 



Such a mad, such a glad little brook am I, 



Singing along when snowflakes fly !" 



— Grace E. Harlow 



