Great God! our heart-felt thanks to Thee!
We feel Thy presence everywhere;
And pray that we may ever be
The objects of Thy guardian care.
We sowed!—by Thee our work was seen,
And blessed; and instantly went forth
Thy mandate; and in living green
Soon smiled the fair and fruitful earth.
We toiled!—and Thou didst note our toil;
And gav’st the sunshine and the rain,
Till ripened on the teeming soil
The fragrant grass, and golden grain.
And now, we reap!—and oh, our God!
From this, the earth’s unbounded floor,
We send our song of thanks abroad,
And pray Thee, bless our hoarded store!
PROGRAMME FOR LYCEUM OR PARLOR ENTERTAINMENT.
MUSIC—Piano Solo.
SONG—Selected by Quartette.
SALUTATORY ADDRESS.
(The following speech should be delivered by a
droll boy who can keep his face straight while others
do the laughing. He should act out the spirit of the
piece with appropriate gestures.)
I am requested to open our performances
by a salutatory address. It needs but
one honest Saxon word for that—one
homely pertinent word; but before I utter a
pertinent word, allow me, like other great
speakers, to indulge in a few impertinent
words.
And first, let me ask if there is a critic
among us; for this is a sort of family gathering.
We allow no critics! No reporters! No
interviewers! (Do I see a boy taking notes?
Put him out. No! It’s a false alarm, I believe.)
Pardon me if, with the help of my mother’s
eye-glass (lifts eye-glasses), I look round on
your phys—phys—physiognomies. (That’s
the word, I’m very certain, for I practiced on
it a good half hour.) Without flattery I say
it, I like your countenances—with one exception.
A critic! If there is anything I detest it
is a critic. One who cannot bear a little
nonsense, and who shakes his head at a little
salutary (not salutatory) fun. Salutary fun?
Did anybody hiss? Point him out. (Speaker
folds his arms, advances, fixes his eyes on some
one in the audience, and shakes his fist at him.)
Yes, sir, I said salutary fun. Salutary! You
needn’t put on such a grave look. Salutary!
You needn’t sneer at that ep—ep—epithet.
(Yes, I’m quite positive that’s the word I
was drilled on. Epi—thet! That’s it.)
But I was speaking of critics. If there is
any one of that tribe in this assembly—any
dear friend of Cæsar—I mean any stupid
friend of Pompey, no, of pomposity—to him
I say—no, to you I say—Go mark him well;
for him no minstrel raptures swell; despite
his titles, power and pelf, the wretch (rather
rough on him, that!)—the wretch, concentred
all in self, living shall forfeit fair renown, and,
doubly dying, shall go down to the vile dust
from whence he sprung, unwept, unhonored,
and unsung.
There! If any member of Congress could
do it better, bring him on. Excuse me if I
sop my brow. (Wiping it with handkerchief.)
But enough! Let us now put by the cap
and bells. Enough of nonsense! As a great
philosopher, who had been frolicking, once
said: “Hush! Let us be grave! Here
comes a fool.” Nothing personal, sir, in
that! Let us be grave.
And so friends, relatives, ladies, and gentlemen,
I shall conclude by uttering from an
overflowing heart that one word to which I
alluded at the beginning—that one pertinent
Saxon word; that is—(flourishes his hand as
if about to utter it; then suddenly puts his hand
to his forehead as if trying to remember.)
Forgotten? Confusion! Not a big word
either! Not half as big as some I have
spoken! What—where—when—whence—what
has become of it? Must I break down,
after all? Must I retire in disgrace from
public life? Never! I have it. Here it is!
Here it is in big capitals: WELCOME!
RECITATION—Mrs. Piper.
(Suited for a young lady. She should appear very
innocent at the beginning, and speak in a droll, unsuspecting
voice and manner. Toward the end she
should exhibit an uncontrollable delight, at the same
time manifest a disposition to conceal it.)
Mrs. Piper was a widow—
“Oh, dear me!
This world is not at all,” she said, “the place it used to be!
Now my good husband, he was such a good man to provide—
I never had the leastest care of anything outside!
But now,
Why, there’s the cow,
A constant care, and Brindle’s calf I used to feed when small,
And those two Ayrshire heifers that we purchased in the fall—
Oh, dear,
My husband sleeping in the grave, it’s gloomy being here!
The oxen Mr. Piper broke, and four steers two years old,
The blind mare and the little colt, they all wait to be sold!
For how am I to keep ’em now? and yet how shall I sell?
And what’s the price they ought to bring, how can a woman tell?
Now, Jacob Smith, he called last night, and stayed till nine o’clock,
And talked and talked, and talked and talked, and tried to buy my stock;
He said he’d pay a higher price than any man in town;
He’d give his note, or, if I chose, he’d pay the money down.
But, there!
To let him take those creeturs off, I really do not dare!
For ’tis a lying world, and men are slippery things at best;
My poor, dear husband in the ground, he wasn’t like the rest!
But Jacob Smith’s a different case; if I would let him, now,
Perhaps he’d wrong me on the horse, or cheat me on a cow;
And so
I do not dare to trust him, and I mean to answer ‘No.’”
Mrs. Piper was a widow—
“Oh, dear me!
A single woman with a farm must fight her way,” said she.
“Of everything about the land my husband always knew;
I never felt, when he was here, I’d anything to do;
But now, what fields to plow,
And how much hay I ought to cut, and just what crops to sow,
And what to tell the hired men, how can a woman know?
Oh, dear!
With no strong arm to lean upon, it’s lonesome being here!
Now Jacob Smith, the other night, he called on me again,
And talked and talked, and talked and talked, and stayed till after ten;
He said he’d like to take my farm, to buy it or to lease—
I do declare, I wish that man would give me any peace!
For there!
To trust him with my real estate I truly did not dare;
For, if he buys it, on the price he’ll cheat me underhand;
And, if he leases it, I know he will run out the land;
And, if he takes it at the halves, both halves he’ll strike for then;
It’s risky work when women folk have dealings with the men!
And so,
I do not dare to trust him, and I mean to answer ‘No.’”
Mrs. Piper was a widow—
“Oh, dear me!
Yet I have still some mercies left; I won’t complain,” said she.
“My poor, dear husband knows, I trust, a better world than this;
’Twere sinful selfishness in me to grudge him Heaven’s bliss!
So now,
I ought to bow
Submissively to what is sent—not murmur and repine;
The hand that sends our trials has, in all, some good design.
Oh, dear!
If we knew all, we might not want our buried lost ones here!
And Jacob Smith, he called last night, but it was not to see
About the cattle or the farm, but this time it was me!
He said he prized me very high, and wished I’d be his wife,
And if I did not he should lead a most unhappy life.
He did not have a selfish thought, but gladly, for my sake,
The care of all my stock and farm he would consent to take—
And, there!
To slight so plain a Providence I really do not dare!
He’ll take the cattle off my mind, he’ll carry on the farm—
I haven’t since my husband died had such a sense of calm!
I think the man was sent to me—a poor, lone woman must,
In such a world as this, I feel, have some one she can trust;
And so,
I do not feel it would be right for me to answer ‘No.’”
MUSIC—To be Selected.
COLLOQUY—True Bravery.
(Suited to a boy and girl of twelve years.)
Ralph.
Good morning, Cousin Laura! I
have a word to say to you.
Laura. Only a word! It is yet
half an hour to school-time, and I can listen.
R. I saw you yesterday speaking to that
fellow Sterling—Frank Sterling.
L. Of course I spoke to Frank. What
then? Is he too good to be spoken to?
R. Far from it. You must give up his
acquaintance.
L. Indeed, Cousin Ralph! I must give
up his acquaintance? On what compulsion
must I?
R. If you do not wish to be cut by all the
boys of the academy, you must cut Frank.
L. Cut! What do you mean by cut?
R. By cutting, I mean not recognizing an
individual. When a boy who knows you
passes you without speaking or bowing, he
cuts you.
L. I thank you for the explanation. And
I am to understand that I must either give
up the acquaintance of my friend Frank, or
submit to the terrible mortification of being
“cut” by Mr. Ralph Burton and his companions!
R. Certainly. Frank is a boy of no spirit—in
short, a coward.
L. How has he shown it?
R. Why, a dozen boys have dared him to
fight, and he refuses to do it.
L. And is your test of courage a willingness
to fight? If so, a bull-dog is the most
courageous of gentlemen.
R. I am serious, Laura; you must give
him up. Why, the other day Tom Harding
put a chip on a fellow’s hat, and dared Frank
Sterling to knock it off. But Sterling folded
his arms and walked off, while we all groaned
and hissed.
L. You did? You groaned and hissed?
Oh, Ralph, I did not believe you had so little
of the true gentleman about you!
R. What do you mean? Come, now, I do
not like that.
L. Were you at the great fire last night?
R. Yes; Tom Harding and I helped work
one of the engines.
L. Did you see that boy go up the ladder?
R. Yes; wouldn’t I like to be in his shoes!
They say the Humane Society are going to
give him a medal; for he saved a baby’s life
and no mistake—at the risk of his own, too;
everybody said so; for the ladder he went
up was all charred and weakened, and it
broke short off before he got to the ground.
L. What boy was it!
R. Nobody could find out, but I suppose
the morning paper will tell us all about it.
L. I have a copy. Here’s the account;
“Great fire; house tenanted by poor families;
baby left in one of the upper rooms; ladder
much charred; firemen too heavy to go up;
boy came forward, ran up; seized an infant;
descended safely; gave it into arms of frantic
mother.”
R. Is the boy’s name mentioned?
L. Ay! Here it is! Here it is! And
who do you think he is?
R. Do not keep me in suspense.
L. Well, then, he’s the boy who was so
afraid of knocking a chip off your hat—Frank
Sterling—the coward, as you called
him.
R. No! Let me see the paper for myself.
There’s the name, sure enough, printed in
capital letters.
L. But, cousin, how much more illustrious
an achievement it would have been for him
to have knocked a chip off your hat! Risking
his life to save a chip of a baby was a
small matter compared with that. Can the
gratitude of a mother for saving her baby
make amends for the ignominy of being cut
by Mr. Tom Harding and Mr. Ralph Burton?
R. Don’t laugh at me any more, Cousin
Laura. I see I have been stupidly in the
wrong. Frank Sterling is no coward. I’ll
ask his pardon this very day.
L. Will you? My dear Ralph, you will
in that case show that you are not without
courage.
RECITATION—Reverie in Church.
Too early of course! How provoking!
I told ma just how it would be.
I might as well have on a wrapper,
For there’s not a soul here yet to see.
There! Sue Delaplaine’s pew is empty—
I declare if it isn’t too bad!
I knew my suit cost more than her’s did,
And I wanted to see her look mad.
I do think that sexton’s too stupid—
He’s put some one else in our pew—
And the girl’s dress just kills mine completely;
Now what am I going to do?
The psalter, and Sue isn’t here yet!
I don’t care, I think it’s a sin
For people to get late to service,
Just to make a great show coming in.
Oh, you’ve got here at last, my dear, have you?
Well, I don’t think you need be so proud
Of that bonnet if Virot did make it,
It’s horrid fast-looking and loud.
What a dress!—for a girl in her senses
To go on the street in light blue!
And those coat-sleeves—they wore them last summer—
Don’t doubt, though, that she thinks they’re new.
Mrs. Gray’s polonaise was imported—
So dreadful!—a minister’s wife,
And thinking so much about fashion!—
A pretty example of life!
The altar’s dressed sweetly—I wonder
Who sent those white flowers for the font!—
Some girl who’s gone on the assistant—
Don’t doubt it was Bessie Lamont.
Just look at her now, little humbug!—
So devout—I suppose she don’t know
That she’s bending her head too far over
And the end of her switches all show.
What a sight Mrs. Ward is this morning!
That woman will kill me some day,
With her horrible lilacs and crimsons,
Why will these old things dress so gay?
And there’s Jenny Wells with Fred Tracy—
She’s engaged to him now—horrid thing!
Dear me! I’d keep on my glory sometimes,
If I did have a solitaire ring!
How can this girl next to me act so—
The way that she turns round and stares,
And then makes remarks about people:—
She’d better be saying her prayers.
Oh, dear, what a dreadful long sermon!
He must love to hear himself talk!
And it’s after twelve now—how provoking!
I wanted to have a nice walk.
Through at last. Well, it isn’t so dreadful
After all, for we won’t dine till one:
How can people say church is poky!—
So wicked!—I think it’s real fun.
ORATION—The Spanish-American War.
It is gratifying to all of us to know that
this has never ceased to be a war of
humanity. The last ship that went out
of the harbor of Havana before war was declared
was an American ship that had taken
to the suffering people of Cuba the supplies
furnished by American charity, and the first
ship to sail into the harbor of Santiago was
an American ship bearing food supplies to
the suffering Cubans, and I am sure it is the
universal prayer of American citizens that justice
and humanity and civilization shall characterize
the final settlement of peace, as they
have distinguished the progress of the war.
My countrymen, the currents of destiny flow
through the hearts of our people. Who will
check them, who will divert them, who will stop
them? And the movements of men, planned
and designed by the Master of Men, will never
be interrupted by the American people.
I witness with pride and satisfaction the
cheers of the multitudes as the veterans of the
civil war on both sides of the contest are reviewed.
I witness with increasing pride the
wild acclaim of the people as you watch the
volunteers and the regulars and our naval
reserves (the guardians of the people on land
and sea) pass before your eyes, for I read in
the faces and hearts of my countrymen the
purpose to see to it that this government,
with its free institutions, shall never perish
from the face of the earth.
My heart is filled with gratitude to the
God of battles, who has so favored us, and to
the soldiers and sailors who have won such
victories on land and sea and have given
such a new meaning to American valor. No
braver soldiers or sailors ever assembled
under any flag.
Gentlemen, the American people are
ready. If the Merrimac is to be sunk in
the mouth of the Santiago harbor to prevent
the escape of the Spanish fleet, a brave young
hero is ready to do it and to succeed in what
his foes have never been able to do—sink
an American ship. All honor to the army
and navy, without whose sacrifices we could
not celebrate the victory. The flag of our
country is safe in the hands of our patriots
and heroes.
President McKinley.
MUSIC—To be Selected.
RECITATION—A Cook of the Period.
(For a young lady who can give the Irish brogue.)
The looks of yer, ma’am, rather suits me—
The wages ye offer ’ill do;
But thin I can’t inter yer sarvice
Without a condition or two.
And now, to begin, is the kitchen,
Commodgeous, with plenty of light,
And fit, ye know, fur entertainin’
Sech fri’nds as I’m like to invite?
And nixt, are yous regular at male-times?
Because ’taint convainyent, ye see,
To wait, and if I behaves punkshul,
It’s no more than yous ought to be.
And thin is your gurrels good-natured?
The rayson I lift my last place,
The French nuss was sich a high lady,
I sint a dish-cloth at her face.
And have yer the laste objection
To min droppin’ in when they choose?
I’ve got some enlivinin’ fust cousins
That frayquently brings me the news.
I must have thim trayted powlitely;
I give yer fair warnin’ ma’am, now,
If the airy gate be closed agin thim,
You’ll find me commincin’ a row.
These matters agrayed on between us,
I’d try yer a wake, so I would.
(She looks like the kind I can manage,
A thin thing without any blood!)
But mind, if I comes for a wake, ma’am,
I comes for that time, and no liss;
And so, thin, purvidin’ ye’d want me,
Just give me your name and addriss.
SONG—Bee-hive Town. TUNE—“Marching Through Georgia.”
Have you ever been to see the busy Bee-Hive Town,
With its funny little wooden houses square and brown?
Hear the bees from clover-fields come flying swiftly down
All enter one little doorway.
Hurrah, hurrah, for busy Bee-Hive Town,
With funny little houses square and brown;
Here the bees from clover fields come flying swiftly down
Bringing the sweet golden honey.
Oh, there are so many rooms with thin and waxen wall,
Packed so close together that you could not count them all,
Here the small bee babies sleep until they learn to crawl,
And fly to find the golden honey.
Mother bee is called the queen, her children love her well,
And she lives within a warm and cosy little cell;
While her children search in garden, meadow-land and dell,
Helpful and happy in working.
All the merry sister bees do many a helpful thing—
Tend their little sisters and the golden honey bring:
But the lazy brother bees do naught but hum and sing,
All through the long golden summer.
PROGRAMME FOR THANKSGIVING.
(The room should be decorated with fruits and grains of the season,
among them a large pumpkin, which will be appropriate to one of the
recitations.)
SONG—Tune: “My Country.”
Honor the Mayflower’s band,
Who left their native land
And home so bright;
Honor the bravery
That crossed the winter sea,
For worship, fearless, free,
In cause of right.
Oh, they had much to fear,
Sickness and death was near
To many a one;
Foes did them cruel wrong,
Winter was dark and long,
Ere came the Springtime’s song
And burst of sun.
Honor those valiant sons,
Honor those fearless ones,
The Mayflower’s band.
Honor the bravery
That scorned all tyranny,
And crossed the stormy sea
To this fair land!
RELIGIOUS EXERCISES—Selected.
RECITATION—What I’m Thankful For.
I’m thankful that I’m six years old,
And that I’ve left off dresses;
And that I’ve had my curls cut off,—
Some people call them tresses.
Such things were never meant for boys;—
Horrid dangling, tangling curls—
They go quite well with dress and sash;
They are just the thing for girls.
I’m thankful I have pockets four,
Tho’ they’re almost too small,
To hold the things I want to keep;—
Some strings, knife, top and ball.
I’m thankful that we’re going to have,
All my folks and I,
Just a jolly dinner to-day,
With turkey and mince pie.
O, one thing more, my mamma says,
And what she says is true;
’Tis God who gives us everything,
And keeps and loves us too.
And so I thank Him very much
For all that I enjoy;
And promise that next New Year’s day
Will find a better boy.
RECITATION—The Pumpkin.
Ah! on Thanksgiving Day, when from East and from West,
From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest,
When the grey-haired New Englander sees round his board
The old broken links of affection restored,
When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more,
And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before,
What moistens the lip, and what brightens the eye?
What calls back the past, like the rich pumpkin pie?
O, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling;
When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling!
When wild, ugly faces were carved in its skin,
Glaring out through the dark with a candle within!
When we laughed round the corn heap, with hearts all in tune,
Our chair a broad pumpkin, our lantern the moon,
Telling tales of the fairy who traveled like steam
In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team!
Then thanks for thy present!—none sweeter or better
E’er smoked from an oven or circled a platter!
Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine,
Brighter eyes never watched o’er its baking than thine!
And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express,
Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less,
That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below,
And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow,
And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky
Gold-tinted and fair as thine own pumpkin-pie!
SONG—Tune: “Yankee Doodle.”
What matters it the cold wind’s blast,
What matters though ’tis snowing,
Thanksgiving Day has come at last;
To grandmamma’s we’re going.
Wrapped in furs as warm as toast,
O’er the hills we’re fleeting;
To welcome friends, a merry host
And grandma’s smile of greeting.
The sleigh bells jingle merrily,
And though the flakes are flying,
At last beyond the hills we see
A little mansion lying.
I’m sure we’ll find sweet cakes and fruit
And pumpkin pies so yellow;
For grandma knows just how to suit
Each hungry little fellow.
RECITAL—Outside and In.
(May be recited by three girls; No. 1 remaining
on the platform while No. 2 recites the second part,
and both standing while No. 3 steps between and
repeats the closing verse.)
Just outside the window,
Through the cold night air,
Snowflakes falling softly,
Dropping here and there,
Covering like a blanket
All the ground below,
Where the flowers are sleeping,
Tucked in by the snow.
They are dreaming sweetly,
Through the winter’s night,
Of the summer’s morning
Coming sure and bright.
2. Just inside the window
Firelight ruddy gleams;
On the walls and ceiling
Dance its merry beams.
White as outside snowflakes
Is the little bed;
On the downy pillow
Rests a curly head.
Like the flowers the child is dreaming
Of the long, bright hours of play
Coming as the darkness melteth
Into sunny day.
3. And above the sleepers,—
Be they child or flower,—
Our loving Father bendeth
Watching hour by hour.
’Tis his love which giveth
Blessings great or small;
’Tis his sun which shineth,
Making day for all.
ORATION—The Laboring Classes.
Sir, it is an insult to our laboring
classes to compare them to the
debased poor of Europe. Why,
sir, we of this country do not know what
poverty is. We have no poor in this country,
in the sense in which that word is used abroad.
Every laborer, even the most humble, in the
United States, soon becomes a capitalist, and
even, if he choose, a proprietor of land; for
the West, with all its boundless fertility, is
open to him.
How can any one dare compare the mechanic
of this land (whose inferiority, in any
substantial particular, in intelligence, in virtue,
in wealth, to the other classes of our society,
I have yet to learn) with that race of outcasts,
of which so terrific a picture is presented by
recent writers—the poor of Europe?—a race
among no inconsiderable portion of whom
famine and pestilence may be said to dwell
continually; many of whom are without
morals, without education, without a country,
without a God! and may be said to know
society only by the terrors of its penal code,
and to live in perpetual war with it. Poor
bondmen! mocked with the name of liberty,
that they may be sometimes tempted to
break their chains, in order that, after a
few days of starvation in idleness and dissipation,
they may be driven back to their
prison-house to take their shackles up again,
heavier and more galling than before; severed,
as it has been touchingly expressed,
from nature, from the common air, and the
light of the sun; knowing only by hearsay
that the fields are green, that the
birds sing, and that there is a perfume in
flowers!
And is it with a race whom the perverse
institutions of Europe have thus degraded
beneath the condition of humanity that the
advocates, the patrons, the protectors, of our
working-men, presume to compare them?
Sir, it is to treat them with a scorn at which
their spirit should revolt, and does revolt.
Hugh Legare.
RECITATION—A Thanksgiving.
(For six boys. They stand in a row and each
steps forward to recite his verse).
For the wealth of pathless forests,
Whereon no axe may fall;
For the winds that haunt the branches;
The young bird’s timid call;
For the red leaves dropped like rubies
Upon the dark green sod;
For the waving of the forests
I thank thee, O my God!
For the sound of water gushing
In the bubbling beads of light;
For the fleets of snow-white lilies
Firm anchored out of sight;
For the reeds among the eddies;
The crystal on the clod;
For the flowing of the rivers,
I thank thee, O my God!
For the rosebud’s break of beauty
Along the toiler’s way;
For the violet’s eye that opens
To bless the new-born day;
For the bare twigs that in summer
Bloom like the prophet’s rod;
For the blossoming of flowers,
I thank thee, O my God!
For the lifting up of mountains,
In brightness and in dread;
For the peaks where snow and sunshine
Alone have dared to tread;
For the dark and silent gorges,
Whence mighty cedars nod;
For the majesty of mountains,
I thank thee, O my God!
For the splendor of the sunsets,
Vast mirrored on the sea;
For the gold-fringed clouds that curtain
Heaven’s inner mystery;
For the molten bars of twilight,
Where thought leans glad yet awed;
For the glory of the sunsets,
I thank thee, O my God!
For the earth and all its beauty;
The sky and all its light;
For the dim and soothing shadow
That rest the dazzled sight;
For unfading fields and prairies,
Where sense in vain has trod;
For the world’s exhaustless beauty,
I thank thee, O my God!
SONG—The Pilgrims. Tune—“Lightly Row.”
Long ago,
To our land
Came the Mayflower’s little band,
Long ago
To our land
Came the Mayflower’s band.
O, they came across the sea,
For the heart’s devotion free.
Long ago
To our land
Came the Mayflower’s band.
Winter, spring,
Slowly passed,
And the harvest came at last.
Winter, spring,
Slowly passed
Harvest came at last.
Then for all the blessings given,
Thanks they rendered unto heaven,
From that day
Came to stay,
Glad Thanksgiving Day.
TABLEAU—Harvest Home.
(Handsome lady, representing Ceres, surrounded
by baskets or shocks of grain, wheat, corn, etc.,
with farmers in attitudes of gathering or binding the
crops).
PROGRAMME FOR FLOWER DAY.
SONG—Tune: “My Country.”
Let us with nature sing,
And floral tributes bring,
On this glad day;
Violets white and blue,
Daisies and lilies too,
Pansies of purple hue,
And roses gay.
O’er this fair land of ours,
Blossom the golden flowers
In loveliness;
From Maine to Washington,
Wherever smiles the sun,
Their fairy footsteps run
To cheer and bless.
When winter’s curtains gray,
From skies are pushed away
By nature’s hand;
We gladly welcome you,
Blossoms of red and blue,
Blossoms of every hue,
To our fair land.
RECITAL—The Poppy and Mignonette.
Once ’tis said, gay, flaunting poppies,
And the humble mignonette,
Side by side grew in a garden
Where one day their glances met.
Cried a Poppy: “Of your presence,
In this spot we have no need,
You are sadly out of place,
You are nothing but a weed.”
Meekly bowed the Mignonette
And ashamed in silence stood,
When there came a gentle murmur,
Like a whisper from the wood:
“Henceforth, gay and flaunting poppies,
Proud and stately in thy bloom,
Shall be taken half thy beauty—
All thy wealth of sweet perfume.
It is thine, O mignonette,
Flower of sweet and lowly grace;
Thou shalt win the hearts of others,
Though thou hast a humble face.”
And the magic of that whisper.
Holds its mystic power yet;
Poppies lure us with their beauty,
But we love the mignonette.
FLOWER QUOTATIONS.
