the depths of lonely places, Till the glad heart sings their praises --Here are the daisies! The daisies! Daisies! See them ebbing and flowing,
Like tides with the full moon going; Spreading their generous largess free For hand to touch and for eye to see; In dust of the wayside growing, On rock-ribbed upland blowing, By meadow brooklets glancing, On barren fields a-dancing, Till the world forgets to burrow and grope, And rises aloft on the wings of hope; --Oh! of all posies, Lilies or roses, Sweetest or fairest, Richest or rarest, That earth in its joy to heaven upraises, Give me the daisies! Why? For they glow with the spirit of youth, Their beautiful eyes have the glory of truth, Down before all their rich bounty they fling --Free to the beggar, and free to the king Loving they stoop to the lowliest ways, Joyous they brighten the dreariest days; Under the fringe of their raiment they hide Scars the gray winter hath opened so wide; Freely and brightly-- Who can count lightly Gifts with such generous ardor proffered, Tokens of love from such full heart's offered, Or look without glances of joy and delight At pastures star-covered from morning till night, When the sunshiny field ablaze is With daisies! Daisies, Your praise is, That you are like maidens, as maidens should be, Winsome with freshness, and wholesome to see, Gifted with beauty, and joy to the eye, Head lifted daintily--yet not too high-- Sweet with humility, radiant with love, Generous too as the sunshine above, Swaying with sympathy, tenderly bent On hiding the scar and on healing the rent, Innocent-looking the world in the face, Yet fearless with nature's own innocent grace, Full of sweet goodness, yet simple in art, White in the soul, and pure gold in the heart --Ah, like unto you should all maidenhood be Gladsome to know, and most gracious to see; Like you, my daisies! M. E. B

Sing a song of sixpence, A pocket full of rye; Four-and-twenty blackbirds Baked into a pie. When the pie was opened The birds began to sing. Wasn't that a dainty dish To set before the King? The King was in the parlor Counting out his money; The Queen was in the kitchen Eating bread and honey; The maid was in the garden Hanging up the clothes, There came a little blackbird And picked off her nose.

DRIVING HOME THE COWS. Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass, He turned them into the river lane; One after another he let them pass, Then fastened the meadow bars again. Along by the willows and over the hill He patiently followed their sober pace-- The merry whistle for once was still And something shadowed the sunny face. Only a boy, and his father had said He never could let his youngest go, Two already were lying 

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