ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 
51 
Buttercups’ faces, 
Beaming and bright; 
Clovers, with bonnets — 
Some red and some white; 
Daisies, their white fingers 
Half clasped in prayer; 
Dandelions, proud of 
The gold of their hair; 
Innocents, children 
Guileless and frail. 
Meek little faces* 
Upturned and pale; 
Wild-wood geraniums, 
All in their best, 
Languidly leaning 
In purple gauze dressed; 
All are assembled, 
This sweet Sabbath day, 
To hear what the priest 
In his pulpit will say. 
Whittier. 
THE GOLDEN ROD. 
LL hail the lovely golden rod, 
£\ The dusty roadside fringing ! 
Midst grasses tall its gray crests nod, 
The world with glory tingeing. 
Its fluffy blossoms manifold, 
The swampy meadows flecking, 
Weave tapestry of cloth of gold, 
The fields with splendor decking. 
Along the dark old forest’s edge 
The yellow plumes are streaming. 
And through the thick and tangled hedge, 
The golden wands are gleaming. 
The lakeside slope is all aglow, 
Where golden rod is drooping. 
Bright mirrored in the depths below 
In many a graceful grouping. 
Eva J. Beeij . 
