Imatges de pÓgina
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So the Poppy-folk flaunted it over the field;
In pride of grandeur they nodded and reeled;
And shook out their jackets till nought was seen
But a wide, wide skimmer of scarlet and green.

The Blue-bottle sat on her downy stalk,
Quietly smiling at all their talk;

The Marigold still spread her rays to the sun, And the purple Vetch climbed up to look at the fun.

The homely Corn-cockle cared nothing, not she, For the arrogance, bluster, and poor vanity Of the proud Poppy-tribe, but she flourished and grew,

Content with herself and her plain purple hue.

The sun went down, and rose bright on the

morrow,

To some bringing joy, and to others e'en sorrow, But blithe was the rich rosy farmer that morn, When he went with his reapers among the corn.

He trotted along, and he cracked his joke, And chatted and laughed with the harvest folk: For the weather was settled, barometers high, And heavy crops gladden'd his practised eye.

"We'll cut this barley to-day," quoth he, As he tied his white pony under a tree. "Next the upland wheat, and then the oats," How the Poppies shook in their scarlet coats!

Aye, shook with laughter, not fear, for they Never dreamed they too should be swept away. And their laughter was spite, to think that all Their "useful" neighbors were doomed to fall.

They swelled and bustled with such an air, The corn-fields quite in commotion were, And the farmer cried, glancing across the grain,

"How these rascally weeds have come up again."

"Ha! ha!" laughed the Red-caps, “ha! ha! what a fuss

Must the poor weeds be in! how they're envying us."

But their mirth was cut short by the sturdy strokes

They speedily met from the harvest folks.

And when low on earth each stem was laid,
And the round moon looked on the havoc made.
A Blue-bottle propped herself half erect,
And made a short speech-to this effect:

"My dying kins-flowers and fainting friends, The same dire fate alike attends

Those who in scarlet and blue are dressed, And how silly the pride that so late possessed

"Our friends the Red-caps! How low they lie,
Who were lately so pert, and vain, and high!
They sneered at us and our plain array;
Are we now a whit more humble than they?

"They scorned our neighbors: the goodly corn
Was the butt of their merriment eve and morn;
They lived on its land, on its bounty fed,
But a word of thanks they never have said.

"And which is the worthiest, now, I pray?
Have ye not learned enough to-day?
Is not the corn sheafed up with care,
And are not the Poppies left dying there?

cup;

"The corn will be carried and garnered up,
To gladden man's heart both with loaf and
And some of the seed the land now yields
Will be brought again to its native fields;

"And grow and ripen and wave next year,
As richly as this hath ripened here;
And we, poor weeds, though needed not,
Perchance may spring up on this very spot.

"But let us be thankful and humble too,
Not proud and vain of a gaudy hue;
Ever remembering, though meanly drest,
That USEFULNESS is of all gifts the best."

A RHYME FOR WORKERS.
Ernest Watmongh.

LOVER! When thy chosen fair one,
With averted eye,

Looks upon thee, coldly frowning,
Deigns thee no reply;
Leave her not in hasty passion,
If you love her true;

Take this motto for your watch-word"He who'd win must woo."

Scholar, o'er the volume bending
By the glimmering lamp,
Let not fortune, unbefriending,
All thy ardor damp.

If the object that thou seekest
Fade before thy view,

Heed it not, still onward struggle-
"He who'd win must woo.'

Worker who for gold art seeking,
Striving night and day,

Be not cast down when misfortune
Sweeps thy all away.

Try again, from small beginnings
Great results we view;

Labor always meets with blessings,
"He who'd win must woo."

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

Longfellow.

UNDER a spreading chesnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long;
His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat;
He earns whate'er he can;

And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school,
Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly,

Like chaff from a threshing floor.

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