The Hawthorn. 
55 
As tender as the cowslip’s bell — 
Most worthy she to be their Queen. 
“There was a little lad I spied, 
Whose cheeks were red with ruddy health; 
He stood sedately by her side, 
But every now and then, by stealth 
Would whisper something in her ear, 
To flush her face, so else serene, 
And then draw back with bashful fear 
That he’d annoy’d the Village Queen. 
“It was a happy sight to see— 
Each brow as sunny as the sky. 
Till eve I joined their jubilee, 
And then I left them with a sigh ; 
Then homeward. When they all were gone. 
One youthful pair I walked between; 
We parted on the emerald lawn 
Before the house of our good Dean. 
***** 
‘ ‘ The Autumn woods were burning brown, 
The Autumn leaves were growing sere, 
The beechen nuts were falling down 
Upon the roadsides, dank and drear; 
The maple boughs were baring fast; 
No corn was in the fields to glean; 
I strode along — young Henry past, 
And I asked of the Village Queen. 
“No word he spoke, but took my hand, 
And drew me on in silent gloom, 
Until together we did stand 
In the churchyard before a tomb; 
Upon the stone I sadly read 
These simple words, ‘ Our Adeline ’, 
With choking voice then Henry said, 
‘ There sleeps our darling Village Queen.’ ” 
John Ingram. 
Rare, indeed, are now these pleasant welcomings — these 
pretty rustic customs, though yet the May-bough is hung ovei 
some houses in Hertfordshire, and the Maypole lingers still 
on the village greens of Wales. The remains of the old prac¬ 
tices are, however, in most places confined to the small chap¬ 
let of cowslips and bluebells which are borne by little timid 
country girls or rosy urchins, whose young voices salute one 
with “ Please remember the May.” 
In a few rural spots of our country a May-day Queen is 
