“Pray you, love, remember 
There's pansies—that's for thought.” 
handful of pansies, 
v/f|v, With love in their glances, 
m ^- 1)C 1 bright, merry faces, so lionest and true 
STh-vSweet my stical token 
Of thoughts yet unspoken, 
And hopes that, in silence, are blooming fwryou. 
Sochangefully tinted, 
Yet deeply imprinted. 
Is a look that’s half human on each tiny face; 
Some darker, some lighter, 
Some sadder, some brighter. 
Yet all are secure in their own modest grace. 
Who ever supposes 
They envy the roses, 
Or blush to be caught in an everyday dress 
Content to be pansies, 
They care not who fancies 
The gayest of beauties, the more, or the less. 
So winsome, so pretty, 
So b, ight and so witty, 
They nod to the breezes each glacl Summer day; 
You think by theirglnm e > 
They’re making advances 
Towards winning your love, in the si»cerest way. 
But don't be forgetting 
They’re used to coquetting 
With the biids, the bees, and the butterflies too; 
Yet look so demurely, ’ 
You would not dream, surely, 
That all of the while they were laughing at you 
They know just what praise is 
In all of its phases, 
From whim of the moment to hearty good will; 
Yet are not presuming, 
But tell by their blooming 
How grateful they are for our love and our skill. 
% 
Then, whence came this sweetness— 
This winsome completeness— 
These merriest beauties of garden and bower ? 
An angel low flitting 
For once, quite forgetting, 
Dropped a smile that sprang up and bloomed as a 
flower. 
And now, gentle maiden, 
Ere life is o’erladen 
With shadow of sorrow, or blighting of care, 
Guard all wayward fancies, 
And like these bright pansies, 
Let none but true friends in your confidence share. 
Then, thoughts that illumine 
The hearts of the human, 
Mark well, for their faces or words will betray; 
Nor heed love’s alluring, 
Save pure and enduring, 
That blooms yet the brighter as life glides away. 
Longfellow’s Finest Sonnet. 
The New Y T ork Evening Post considers the follow¬ 
ing Longfellow’s finest sonnet: 
& s a fond mother, when the day is o’er, 
Leads by the hand her little child to bed, 
rai*. Half willing, half reluctant to be led, 
^ V And leaves his broken playthings on the 
floor, 
Still gazing at them through the open door, 
Nor wholly reassured and comforted 
By promises of others in their stead, 
Which, though more splendid, may not please him 
more; 
So Nature deals with us, and takes away 
Our playthings one by one, and by the hand 
Leads us to rest so gently that we go 
Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, 
Being too full of sleep to understand 
How far the unknown transcends the what we 
know.” 
-- 
II pays to have <i gar ten if you will take 
care of it. If you make a garden, it pays 
to enrich tlie ground liberally. Nothing 
from nothing is one of Nature s by-laws, if 
not a part of the constitution of things. 
Stable manure is adequate lor nearly all 
purposes, but good superphosphate is more 
convenient, and Ini’ the a Ivautagefor near¬ 
ly all purposes, of being tree from weeds. 
-- 
"Mosaiculture” is what the Scotch folks 
term the planting of beds containing mot¬ 
toes or devices set out with colored foliage 
plants. This is a new departure in the ar¬ 
rangement of extensive lawns and terraces. 
