"Saint Emily has come!" And round her close they gather, An eager little band, While from the well-stored basket She fills each outstretched hand With purple hillside asters, And wondrous golden-rod, And all the lingering flowers that love To dress the autumn sod; And pallid cheeks flush rosy, And heavy eyes grow bright, And little hearts forlorn and lone, Stir with a deep delight. And when the woods are naked, And flowers no longer blow, When the green nooks they love so well Are buried in the snow, Not quite unknown that presence To children sick in bed, Bearing bright wreaths of autumn leaves, And strings of berries red. A heaven-sent mission, surely, To cheer the sick and poor With bounties that the bounteous God Has strewn beside our door-- To gladden little children, To comfort dying hours, To bear to wretched hearts and homes The gospel of the flowers. What marvel if glad blessings Surround Saint Emily! What marvel if some loving eyes In her an angel see!-- And, too, what marvel if the thought Is borne to me and thee, That many a kindly boy and girl As sweet a saint might be. [Illustration: 0045] BLUE AND GOLD. By Mrs. Clara Doty Bates. |THE warm June day was full Of color as it could hold; "Now, which is the sweetest blue, And which is the brightest gold, In all that your little eyes can see, In cloud-land, earth, or the water-world?" I said to the children three. We were on the fresh new grass, And the pretty hammock hung Like a web between the trees, And in it the baby swung. 'Twas as if a spider, busy and sly, Had spun its meshes there, white and light, And caught a butterfly. A moment's silence fell On all, till Teddy guessed-- He had eyes for every bird, And eyes, too, for its nest-- And he cried--the eager little soul-- "The bluest blue is the bluebird, And gold is the oriole." Then Flora, who loved flowers, But had not spoken yet, Whispered that gold was a crocus, And blue a violet. And Edith, the more emphatic one, Said: "No; the bluest blue is the sky, And the goldenest gold the sun!" I pointed to the web That swung so white and light, In which the baby cooed As a nestling pigeon might; "I can answer best of all," I said, "For there is in water-world, earth or skies No blue so sweet as that baby's eyes, No gold so bright as his head!" THE LAND OF USED-TO-BE. By James Whitcomb Riley.