10 



HOME AND FLOWEBS 



simply hints at wliat we' will be able to 

 do, b}' and by, when we get everybody in- 

 terested in the movement. 



* * ❖ 



I believe in the scrap book. Items of 

 valuable information are continually float- 

 ing about in the papers, but their value 

 is not properly understood if we do not 

 make such disposal of them as will enable 

 us to appropriate' the- information con- 

 tained whenever the opportunity comes to 

 do so. We may think we will remember 

 what we read, but when the time comes to 

 remember it we find we- have forgotten 

 some detail of importance, without which 

 we' do not feel safe in attempting to go 

 ahead with what we do remember. I would 

 advise every reader of this magazine to 

 cut out all such items when found, file 

 them away where they will not get lost, 

 and by and by, when a quantity has ac- 

 cumulated, assort them and put them in 



scrap books. I know of several persons.;, 

 who have formed the habit of preserving^ 

 items treating on flowers and their culture, 

 and they now have a collection of great 

 value, covering the entire field of amateur 

 floriculture. A scrap book of this kind, so 

 arranged that its owner can turn to any 

 subject readily, will be found a whole 

 library in itself. By all means, save the 

 items you come across, and make a scrap 

 book of them. 



* * * 



A lady writes : "Do you believe in 

 flower shows?" To which I reply. Yes, I 

 do, whe.n the show is calculated to increase . 

 the love and appreciation of flowers a^s 

 flowers, rather than to call attention to 

 the skill of the florist in producing freak 

 flower's, which are only attractive as curi- 

 osities. I sincerely hope that the day of 

 Chrysanthemum's a foot across and Eoses 

 as large as small cabbages is waning. 



IN AUTUMN 



By Eben E. Rexford 



Come out with me on tlie liillside. 



The world is in gay attire. 

 The maples along the lowlands 



Glow with October fire. 

 The Elm tree and the Ash tree 



Have changed their green for gold, 

 And the Sumach shines in scarlet, 



And — the year is growing old. 



See! When the breeze comes blowing 



Its way down the steep hill's crest, 

 The leaves like birds are flying 



North, south, and east, and west. 

 Through the haze that is over the landscape 



A breath comes, chillingly cold, 

 Like a sigh in the midst of singing, 



For— the year is growing old. 



0, the beauty that's all about us— 



How soon it must fade and die ! 

 I wonder if bar© boughs dream of 



Green leaves and the summer sky? 

 I wonder if old folks' dreaming 



Is the same when the days are cold, 

 Or is it heaven's spring they think of 



When life, like the year, grows old? 



What matters the autumn's coming, 



And the fall of the ripened leaf? 

 There's an endless springtime nearing, 



And winter's reign is brief. 

 O, sorrowful thoughts — forget them! 



Look forth mth a joy untold 

 To the time all hearts have faith in, 



Where nothing we love grows old. 



