WILD FLOWERS. 
“ Wild Flowers seem to me the true philanthropists of 
their race. Their generous and cheerful faces ever give a 
kindly greeting to the troops of merry village children who 
revel in their blossoming wealth; and right welcome are 
they gladdening the eyes of the poor mechanic, when he 
breathes the fresh country air on Sunday, and gathers a 
handful of cowslips or daffodils, or the prouder foxglove, 
to carry home, and set in the dim window of his’pent-up 
dwelling. So dear and beautiful are Wild Flowers, that 
one would think every one must love them.” 
Miss Twamlet. 
Aye, must love them indeed, Lady ! well 
might Burns pause with his plough, to lament 
over the daisy which he had destroyed ; well 
might Wordsworth pen, I know not how 
many stanzas, to the same simple flower, and 
to the golden celandine; and well might 
another child of song exclaim:— 
“ Oh! I’ll never envy riches, though toilin’ at the plough, 
There’s flowers alang the peasant’s path, e’en kings might 
stoop to pu\” —G. W. 
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