Withip that cot, 
In the sunshine warm, 
On the carpet soft, 
Sits a fairy form, 
With head bent low 
On a hand of snow, 
A shade of thought on the fair white brow, 
And in each line of her lovely face 
Beauty the rarest we may trace. 
Beautiful, beautiful ruby lips, 
Sweet as the nectar Jubiter sips, 
Beautiful cheek of rosy hue, 
Beautiful eyes of heavenly blue, 
Soft as the dying day. 
With the mellow light 
On her golden hair, 
Is it elfin sprite. 
Is it angel fair? 
Oh, peerless Daisy Day. 
Light of footstep and light of heart, 
Singing a cheerful song, 
Scattering sunshine over the home 
Happy the whole day long. 
Twining the rose-buds fresh and sweet, 
With the curls of her glossy hair, 
Or lending her ready and nimble hands 
To lighten a mother’s care. 
Flitting about, 
On missions of love, 
Guided ’twould seem 
By angels above, 
What wonder it, that alway 
Every one blessed her— 
All caressed her, 
Lovely Daisy Day. 
* * * * 4c * 
Gone, gone, gone! 
From her happy childhood’s home, 
Gone, was the mournful cry 
From the mother’s heart that came, 
As she sadly murmured o’er and o’er 
And her heart grew wild 
With a sickening dread 
For her only child, 
As she sadly said, 
While lower still she bowed her head, 
Oh, where doth my darling stray, 
Oh, whither have her erring feet 
Carried my daughter fair and sweet? 
Thy mother’s heart will break, will break, 
Oh, Daisy, Daisy Day. 
* 4e 4= 4= 4c 4c 
The lingering rays of the setting sun 
Fall aslant the cottage wall; 
The birds and flowers have gone to sleep, 
There is silence over all; 
And just within the cottage door 
Where the twilight shadows fall, 
Sits a woman lone, and sad, and pale, 
Her brow is seemed with care, 
There’s a far off look in her weary eyes, 
There is silver in her hair; 
Her hands are clasped, 
Uplifted there, 
And all unasked 
Is the silent prayer 
That still her Father would give her strength 
Her burden of life to bear, 
Or take her with Him to rest above 
In the heavenly mansions fair. 
List, hears she a footfall, soft and slow 
It crosses the threshold o’er, 
A wan, sad face, with its eager eyes 
Looks into her own once more, 
A slender, drooping, fragile form 
Kneels beside her on the floor. 
In trembling, tearful accents wild, 
She hears the voice of her only child. 
“I’ve roamed so far astray, 
Oh, mother, how weary I have been— 
Tired, oh so tired of the paths of sin, 
Oh, take to your bosom once again 
Your sorrowing Daisy Day.” 
Ah, years agone she clasped to her breast 
With a fever akin to this, 
The same loved form, and the same lips pressed 
With a mother’s fondest kiss. 
And as she smooths the tangled curls 
Aback from the brow so pale, 
She prays that grace and strength be given 
To the child of earth so frail; 
And she thanks the Giver of all good 
For the blessing of to-day, 
That he has guided the lost one home 
To wander no more away. 
And now together they both will wait, 
Together they’ll tread the path so strait* 
Together they’ll enter the golden gate. 
The mother and Daisy Day. 
Turkeys. 
BY E. D. HYRE. 
It is pretty generally conceded that tur¬ 
keys are about as profitable as any fowls 
raised, especially where one has sufficient 
room. Turkeys will not thrive in confine¬ 
ment, and therefore are principally a farm¬ 
er’s fowl—that is, they are best adapted to 
farmers, since to do their best they must 
[ have unrestricted range. Where they can 
roam over the fields and through the woods 
they will pick up their living during the 
warm months. The exercise taken, togeth¬ 
er with the insects picked up in their daily 
travels, causes a rapid development of the 
muscles and early maturity. They can be 
made very profitable by all who have land 
sufficient to give them free range, and no 
I farmer should be without them. There 
are three leading varieties—the Bronze, 
Narragansett, and White Holland. Of 
these the Bronze, from its hardiness, rich- 
