The day is chill, although 'tis sunny,
And icy cold this snowdrop honey.'

Again came humming forth the bee,
"What month is with us now?" said he.
Gay crocus-blossoms, blue and white
And yellow, opened to the light.

"It must be April," said the bee,
"And April's scarce the month for me.
Ill taste these flowers (the day is sunny),
And wait before I gather honey."

Once more came out the waiting bee.
"'Tis come; I smell the spring!" said he.
The violets were all in bloom;
The lilac tossed a purple plume.

The daffodil wore a yellow crown;
The cherry tree a snow-white gown;
And by the brookside, wet with dew;
The early wild wake-robins grew.

“It is the May-time,” said the bee;
"The queen of all the months for me;
The flowers are here, the sky is sunny,
'Tis now the time to gather honey."

TREE PLANTING.

A boy strolled through a dusty road,
"What can I do?" said he,
"What little errand for the world?"
"I know I'll plant a tree."

The nursling was taken by mother earth,
Who fed it with all things good:
Sparkling water from mountain springs,
And many a subtle food

Drawn from her own wide reaching veins,
From the treasuries of the sky;

Far spread its branches in affluent grace;
So the steady years went by.

The boy who planted the little tree,
By a kindly purpose led,

One desolate, dreadful winter day

In the brother-war fell dead.

But the gentle thought at the great elm's root Burst forth with the spring's warm breath, And softly the fluttering foliage sang,

"Love cannot suffer death."

The elm's vast shadow far and cool
Fell o'er the dusty way,
Blessing the toilers at their rest,
The children at their play.
And panting horses felt the air
Grow sudden full of balm;
Great oxen with their weary loads
Caught there a sudden calm.
So little acts of kindliness
Spread every branch and root,
And never guesses he who plants
The wonders of the fruit.

I often think if blessed eyes
The old home scenes can see,
That heaven's joy is heightened by
The planting of the tree.

THE TREES AND THE MASTER. *
Into the woods my Master went,
Clean forspent-forspent,

Into the woods my Master came-
Forspent with love and shame.

But the olives they were not blind to Him;
The little gray leaves were kind to Him;
The thorn tree had a mind to Him,

When into the woods He came.

Out of the woods my Master went-
And He was well content;

Out of the woods my Master came―
Content with death and shame.

When Death and Shame would woo Him last,

From under the trees they drew Him last,

'Twas on a tree they slew Him last,
When out of the woods He came.

WAITING TO GROW.

Little white snowdrop, just waking up,
Violet, daisy, and sweet buttercup!
Think of the flowers that are under the snow,
Waiting to grow!

And think what hosts of queer little seeds-
Of flowers and mosses, of ferns and weeds—
Are under the leaves and under the snow,
Waiting to grow!

Think of the roots getting ready to sprout,
Reaching their slender brown fingers about,
Under the ice and the leaves and the snow,
Waiting to grow!

*From Poems of Sidney Lanier, copyright 1884, 1891, by Mary D. Lanier, published by

Charles Scribner's Sens

Only a month or a few weeks more,
Will they have to wait behind that door;
Listen and watch, for they are below-
Waiting to grow!

Nothing so small, or hidden so well,

That God will not find it, and very soon tell
His sun where to shine, and his rain where to go,
To help them grow!

ORCHARD BLOSSOMS.

Doth thy heart stir within thee at the sight

Of orchard blooms upon the mossy bough?

Doth their sweet household smile waft back the glow Of childhood's morn-the wondering, fresh delight In earth's new coloring, then all strangely bright, A joy of fairyland? Doth some old nook, Haunted by visions of thy first-loved book, Rise on thy soul, with faint-streaked blossoms white Showered o'er the turf, and the lone primrose knot, And robin's nest, still faithful to the spot,

And the bee's dreary chime? O gentle friend!

The world's cold breath, not time's, this life bereaves Of vernal gifts: Time hallows what he leaves, And will for us endear spring memories to the end.

THE USE OF FLOWERS.

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

The oak tree and the cedar tree,
Without a flower at all.

He might have made enough, enough,

For every want of ours;

For luxury, medicine and toil

And yet have made no flowers.

The ore within the mountain mine,
Requireth none to grow,

Nor doth it need the lotus flower
To make the river flow.

The clouds might give abundant rain,
The nightly dews might fall,

And the herb that keepeth life in man
Might yet have drunk them all.

Then wherefore, wherefore were they made,

All dyed with rainbow light;

All fashioned with supremest grace,

Upspringing day and night?

Springing in valleys green and low,
And on the mountains 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 who so careth for the flowers,
Will much more care for him!

IN PRAISE OF TREES.

And forth they passe, with pleasure forward led,
Joying to heare the birdes sweete harmony,
Which, therein shrouded from the tempest dred,
Seemed in their song to scorne the cruell sky.
Much can they praise the trees so straight and hy,
The sayling Pine; the Cedar proud and tall;
The vine‐propp Elme; the Poplar never dry;
The builder Oake, sole king of forests all;
The Aspine good for staves; the Cypresse funerall.
The Laurell, meed of mightie conquerors
And poets sage; the Firre that weepeth still;
The Willow, worne of forlorne Paramours;
The Eugh, obedient to the bender's will;
The Birch, for shafts; the Sallow for the mill;
The Mirrhe sweete-bleeding in the bitter wound;
The warlike Beech; the Ash for nothing ill;
The fruitfull Olive; and the Platane round;
The carver Holme; the Maple seldom inward sound.

TONGUES IN TREES.

Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile,

Faerie Queen

Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
The season's difference, as the icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind,
Which, when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say:
'This is no flattery; these are counsellors
That feelingly persuade me what I am.'
Sweet are the uses of adversity. * *

And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

I would not change it.

APRIL TIME.

April is here!

"As You Like It."

There's a song in the maple, thrilling and new;
There's a flash of wings of heaven's own hue;
There's a veil of green on the nearer hills;
There's a burst of rapture in woodland rills;
There are stars in the meadow dropped here and there;
There's a breath of arbutus in the air;
There's a dash of rain, as if flung in jest;
There's an arch of color spanning the west;
April is here!

FALL FASHIONS.

The maple owned that she was tired of always wearing green, She knew that she had grown, of late, too shabby to be seen! The oak and beech and chestnut then deplored their shabbiness, And all except the hemlock sad, were wild to change their dress. "For fashion-plates we'll take the flowers," the rustling maple said; "And like the tulip I'll be clothed in splendid gold and red!" "The cheerful sunflower suits me best," the lightsome beech replied; "The marigold my choice shall be," the chestnut spoke with pride. The sturdy old oak took time to think, "I hate such glaring hues; The gillyflower, so dark and rich, I for my model choose.' So every tree in all the grove, except the hemlock sad, According to its wish ere long in brilliant dress was clad. And here they stand through all the soft and bright October days; They wish'd to be like flowers, indeed they look like huge bouquets.

133. THE VICTIM.

ANONYMOUS.

"Hand me the bowl, ye jovial band,"
He said-"'twill rouse my mirth;"
But conscience seized his trembling hand,
And dashed the cup to earth.

He looked around, he blushed, he laughed,
He sipped the sparkling wave;

In it he read "who drinks this draught,
Shall dig a murderer's grave!"

He started up, like one from sleep,
And trembled for his life;

He gazed, and saw-his children weep,
He saw his weeping wife.