farmer mowed the field, cutting them 

 with the clover. 



''Now," joyfully the prickly lettuce 

 cried, ''now the farmer is treating us all 

 alike for once. We will at least have an 

 even chance to grow again." 



"Since I have lost my leaves I can 

 neither breathe nor digest my food," 

 later complained the prickly lettuce. 



"Neither can I," mourned the mustard. 



"Nor I," echoed the cockle-bur. 



They did make a great effort, but 

 found that when their useful green leaves 

 were taken from them they had been 

 deprived of their principal means of main- 

 taining vitality. As some of the clover 

 leaves lay close to the ground, the reaper 



did not get them all ; consequently redtop 

 had the advantage. With great energy 

 the clover soon put up other fresh leaves 

 and heads. Indeed, it grew so rapidly 

 that it crowded the friends so that they 

 were soon hid from even the sunlight. 

 Now they felt completely discouraged. 



One day the farmer and his eldest son 

 came to look at the clover. 



"Well, well!" exclaimed he. "This 

 field is ready to be cut again." 



As he walked around examining the 

 growth he remarked, "What a clean 

 crop! The other made pretty fair hay; 

 this will certainly give us some fine 

 seed." 



LOVEDAY AlMIRA NeLSON. 



THE SCARLET IBIS. 



When tides have dropped below the marsh's reach, 

 While on their fishing ground the herons line. 



The scarlet ibis stalks the sandy beach. 



In sea-blown plumes, with steel-blue fringes fine. 



And past them, sooty terns with dusky eyes, 

 Run nimbly on, and curlews whistling clear; 



But bar and sea-walk when the waters rise 



They leave, and seek the open marshes near. 



The marshes ! rich in herbs and tawny grass. 

 And salty shrubs, which veil the trodden roads 



Of water- fowl to rounded pools like glass, 



Or feeding haunts, or sheltered, dimmed abodes. 



With nut-brown eyes, and wrinkled rosy face, 



The ibis stands and each its nook illumes ; 

 Or slowly on, in sunlit files they pace. 



Or preen in groups, their glowing scarlet plumes. 



From dawn to dusk, their splendid beauty lights 



These sombre fens and shingle beaches gray, 

 Where still the curlews call when sea-swung nights 



Have drowned the sunken colors of the day. 



— Eliza Wood worth. 



