THE SPRIG OF WINTERGREEN. 
BY C. F. HOFFMAN. 
It grew not in the golden clime 
Where painted birds, in bowers as gay, 
Their notes on Tropic breezes chime. 
While Nature keeps her holiday ! 
’Neath Northern Stars its leaflets first 
Expanded to the wooing air. 
And, in the lonely wild-wood nurs’d, 
It learn’d the Northern blast to bear. 
Transplanted from its simple home— 
By rocky dell or wind-swept hill— 
Like birds in stranger climes that roam, 
And keep their native wood-notes still— 
Still in its glossy verdure dress’d. 
It blooms, unchang’d with change of scene, 
An emblem on its wearer’s breast 
Of Truth and Purity within. 
