TO THE FLOWERS

Sweet flowers, where'er I see you,
It seems, I know not why,
That you are heavenly footprints
Of angels passing by.

In Nature's infinite book of secrecy

A little can I read.

-SHAKESPEARE.

THE USE OF FLOWERS

God might have made the earth bring forth Enough for great and small,

The oak tree, and the cedar tree,

Without a flower at all.

We might have had enough, enough
For every want of ours,

For luxury, medicine, and toil,

And yet have had no flowers.

Then wherefore, wherefore were they made,
And dyed with rainbow light,
All fashioned with supremest grace

Upspringing day and night,

Springing in valleys green and low,
And on the mountain high,
And in the silent wilderness
Where no man passes by?

Our outward life requires them not,
Then wherefore had they birth?
To minister delight to man,
To beautify the earth:

To comfort man, to whisper hope,
Whene'er his faith is dim,

For Whoso careth for the flowers
Will care much more for him!

- MARY HOWITT.

WHEN, WHERE, AND HOW

Who painted the yellow buttercup
And the daisy's shining heart?
The sun with his golden pencil
And hand of magic art?
Then, did the little cloudlets
Stoop with their misty white,
And bring a dress for the snowdrop
And fringe for the daisy bright?

How did the pink anemone
And the purple, find their hue?
Are they the dainty colors
Of the earliest morning dew?

And the stately scarlet lily-
Where did it catch its glow?
Over there in the gleaming west
When the sun was shining low?

And all the buds and grasses;
Look at their tender green :
Did ever you see such dresses
Worn by a fairy queen?

Where did the brushes come from
That daintily touched them so?
Straight, do you think, from Paradise?

Where else could they ever grow?

What's a flower? A bit of brightness
Sprung unconscious from the sod,
Yet it lifts us in its lightness

From our earthliness to God.

I love the lowly children of the earth!

I linger 'mid their artless ways

To feel their kinship and their fragile worth, And catch their speechless praise.

A child of nature, that is child of God,

I count these lovely kindred mine.

We, children all, breathe on His bosom broad, Live by God's love divine!

MRS. MERRILL E. GATES.

Why talk of wondrous miracles of yore,

When June comes whisp'ring at thy lattice door. Are not the springing grass and op'ning flowers

God's miracles through all the summer hours?

When the icy hand of Nature yearns
Faintly in its wintry stupor deep,

And the prescient earth, half-conscious, turns
Sunward, smiling in her frozen sleep,-

How do dull brown tubers, which have lain
In their darksome prison heaped away,
Know that spring entreats the world again,
And begin their struggle toward the day?

No spring light has touched them where they lay,
No spring warmth has reached them in their tomb,
Yet they sprout and yearn and reach alway
Toward the distant goal of life and bloom.

Planted in the selfsame garden bed,

Nourished by the selfsame rain and light,
Whence do roses draw their glowing red?
Whence the lily cups their shining white?

Whence does the refulgent marigold

Gain the gilding for her golden globes?

Where do the pansies find, amid the mould,
Purple hues to prank their velvet robes?

How do sweet peas plume their wings with pink,
Lavender, and crimson rich and fair?
Nature gives them one and all to drink
Limpid crystal, colorless as air.

Little gardener with your golden locks

Bright with sunshine, or uncurled with dew,
Musing there among your pinks and phlox,
Finding always something strange or new, -

Trust me, child, the wisest, strongest brain,
Cobwebbed with much learning though it be,
Querying thus, must query all in vain,
Pausing foiled at last, like you or me.

– ELIZABETH AKERS.

A BOTANY LESSON

There's a strange wee cradle in each little flower,
Where the wee seed children are sleeping.
Though so small, they are growing hour by hour,
And the nurse-flower watch is keeping.

All around and about are the stamen-trees
Where the gold pollen cakes are growing.
And the bees and the butterflies shake the trees,
And the little seeds think it is snowing.