ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 
14: 
DISCONTENT. 
D OWN in a field, one day in June, 
The flowers all bloomed together, 
Save one, who tried to hide herself, 
And drooped, that pleasant weather. 
A robin who had flown too high. 
And felt a little lazy, 
Was resting near this buttercup 
Who wished she were a daisy; 
For daisies grow so trig and tall! 
— She always had a passion 
For wearing frills around her neck. 
In just the daisies’ fashion. 
And buttercups must always be 
The same old tiresome color; 
While daisies dress in gold and white, 
Although their gold is duller. 
“ Dear robin," said this sad young flower, 
“ Perhaps you’d not mind trying 
To find a nice white frill for me, 
Some day when you are flying?” 
“ You silly thing! ” the robin said, 
“ I think you must be crazy; 
I’d rather be my honest self 
Than any made-up daisy. 
“ You’re nicer in your own bright gown; 
The little children love you: 
Be the best buttercup you can, 
And think no flower above you. 
“ Though swallows leave me out of sight. 
We’d better keep our places: 
Perhaps the world would all go wrong 
With one too many daisies. 
“ Look bravely up into the sky, 
And be content with knowing 
That God wished for a buttercup 
Just here, where you are growing." 
Sara O. Jewett. 
UNITED. 
A SUMACH tall, 
By a garden wall, 
Bloomed through the summer air; 
Within there grew, 
Of every hue, 
Flowers exceeding fair. 
An outcast he, 
Yet, tenderly 
He loved the garden queen. 
And well she knew. 
So close they grew, 
With but a wall between. 
The sumach burned, 
When the dahlia turned 
Her laughing face of gold, 
To where he stood, 
By the rough dogwood, 
Outside of the garden fold. 
What mattered birth ? 
The selfsame earth 
Had nursed their infant seed; 
But custom said: 
“ No flower should wed 
A rough, plebeian weed.” 
One chilly night, 
The frost king’s blight, 
Fell over woods and farms; 
Next day, quite dead, 
The dahlia’s head 
Lay in the sumach's arms. 
Helen F. O’Neill. 
