ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 
341 
THE WAYSIDE INN —AN APPLE-TREE. 
T HALTED at a pleasant inn, 
1 As I my way was wending 
A golden apple was the sign, 
From knotty bow depending. 
Mine host — it was an apple-tree - 
He smilingly received me, 
And spread his choicest, sweetest fruit, 
To strengthen and relieve me. 
Full many a little feathered guest 
Came through his branches springing ; 
They hopped and flew from spray to spray, 
Their notes of gladness singing. 
Beneath his shade I laid me down, 
And slumber sweet possessed me; 
The soft wind blowing through the leaves 
With whispers low caressed me. 
And when I rose and would have paid 
My host so open-hearted, 
He only shook his lofty head 
I blessed him and departed. 
From the German. 
SONG OF THE GRASS BLADES. 
P eepW, peeping, here and there, 
In lawns and meadows everywhere ; 
Coming up to find the spring, 
And hear the robin redbreast sing. 
Creeping under children’s feet, 
Glancing at the violets sweet. 
Growing into tiny bowers, 
For the dainty meadow flowers : — 
We are small, but think a minute 
Of a world with no grass in it! 
BRAMBLE. 
T HE fruit full well the schoolboy knows, 
Wild bramble of the brake ! 
So, put thou forth thy small white rose; 
I love it for his sake. 
For dull the eye, the heart is dull 
That cannot feel how fair, 
Amid all beauty, beautiful 
Thy tender blossoms are ! 
Though woodbines flaunt and roses grow 
O’er all the fragrant bowers, 
Thou need’st not be ashamed to show 
Thy satin threaded flowers. 
How delicate thy gauzy frill ! 
How rich thy branching stem ! 
How soft thy voice, when woods are still, 
And thou sing’st hymns to them. 
Ebenezer Elliot. 
Long as there’s a sun that sets, 
Primroses will have their glory ; 
Long as there are violets, 
They will have a place in story ; 
There’s a flower that shall be mine, 
’Tis the little Celandine. 
Wordsworth. 
