For Daily Inspiration 



A PAGE OF FUGITIVE VERSE 



Fancy Work 



BY CORA A. MATSON DOLSON. 



Your Battenberg aud knitted lace 



To me are mysteries; 

 Instead, a rosy, laughing face 



Comes up for me to kiss. 



There is a call for help to send 



A wayward kite atloat, 

 And now a jagged rent to mend, 



Or sail a wooden boat. 



My hand must give the ball a toss, 



The painted top it twirls. 

 Or straightens out the tangled floss 



Of little Dorcas's curls. 



'Tis Dorcas dear and boyish Phil 

 From dawn till even-fall; 



And in my dreams I keep them still, 

 To heed their lightest call. 



I envy not your doilies rare, 

 Your broidered curtains fine; 



Far richer are the joys I share 

 With these dear hearts of mine. 



Daddy's Sentinel 



When Daddy went away to fight 



And kissed us all good-by 

 He held me in his arms so tight 



And told me not to cry— 

 "My gallant little Sentinel," 



He whispered, "you must be, 

 And you must guard dear Mother well, 



For Daddy o'er the sea." 



And so I take my sword and gun 



And drill and march each day 

 Until the fighting all is done 



And Sentinels can play; 

 And when dear Mother's face looks sad 



I tell her not to fear- 

 Though Daddy's gone I know she's glad 



His little Sentry's here! 



And when I kneel to say my prayer 



To God so good and kind— 

 "Please keep our soldier safe, and care 



For those he left behind," 

 I somehow think He hears and knows 



While far across the foam, 

 Dear Daddy fights his country's foes, 



His boy's "on guard" at home! 



—Mary Farrar, in Good Words. 



You Brought Me Flowers 



BY MRS. SARAH WOLVERTON. 



You brought me flowers ! blush roses, three, 

 Not guessing all they held for me; 



The day was dark, and I alone; 



Life sang to me in monotone; 

 While every hope afloat at sea. 

 Seemed wrecks upon the sands to be: 



While chilly winds were making moan — 

 You brought me flowers. 



As 'twere love's mantle overthrown. 

 O'er all the sky a radiance shone ; 



Hope swung her snowy canvas free; 



Because, because, dear heart, you see, 

 When I was weary, sad, and lone. 

 You brought me flowers. 



Is it Always Progress? 



BY ISABELLA H. FISKE. 



Where wet wood-violets fringed a river shore 

 And lilies clung about the dripping oar — 

 You see a line of smoking chimney shafts, 



And hear the factory's muffled, evil roar. 



The Snowdrop 



BY F. S. 



(The writer of the following poem is only 

 thirteen years of age.) 



The harvest Of the early flowers 



That blossom in the spring, 

 When the buds are all bursting. 

 And the birds commence to sing, 



Is the lowly little snowdrop 

 That struggles with the snow 



Long before the others flowers 

 Ever think of starting to grow. 



It cheerfully springs from the earth, 

 Up from the darkness and mold, 



Although it would be much nicer 

 Than in the snow and cold. 



Though the violet's very pretty 



And it don't last the best^ 

 We welcome it as being 



The first, our Dear Spring Guest. 



'To the sunny soul that is full of hope. 



And whose beautiful trust ne'er faileth, 

 The grass is green and the flowers are bright, 

 Though the wintry storm prevaileth." 



