The fair maiden straight donned her best array, And forth to the festival hied away; But scarce had she gone Ere the storm came on; And, ’mid thunder and rain, She cried oft and again, “Oh! would I had minded yon boding flower, And were safe at home from the pelting shower.” Now, maidens, the tale that I tell would say, Don’t don fine clothes on a doubtful day, Nor ask advice, when, like many more, You had “made up your minds” some time before. _Louisa A. Twamley._ POPPY.... _Consolation_. The Red Poppy is the floral symbol of consolation. The White Poppy is supposed to express, “My bane, my antidote.” The juice extracted from these plants is employed to soothe the restless invalid to sleep, and to ease the pangs of disease. According to the mythology of the Grecians, the Poppy owed its origin to Ceres, who created it to assuage her grief, during her search after her daughter Proserpine, who was carried off by Pluto. The Poppy is extensively cultivated in Europe, for the purpose of making opium from it. Many species are cultivated in the garden. The double flowers possess surpassing beauty, whether we consider their delicate texture, elegance of shape, or variety of colouring. In the time of Gesner, the celebrated botanist of Switzerland, the village Damons and Chloes proved the sincerity of their lovers by placing in the hollow of the palm of the left-hand, a petal, or flower-leaf of the Poppy, which, on being struck by the other hand, was broken with a sharp sound, which denoted true attachment; but faithlessness, when it failed to snap. * * * * * The world has closed its eyes and fallen asleep; And GOD looks down from His eternal throne And shuts the eye that long was wont to weep, And makes the wretched feel they’re not alone. _MacKellar._ PRIDE AND THE POPPIES.--THEIR GRANDEUR AND FALL. “We little Red-caps are among the corn, Merrily dancing at early morn, We know that the farmer hates to see Our saucy red faces; but here are we! “We pay no price for our summer coats, Like those slavish creatures, barley and oats; We don’t choose to be ground and eat, Like our heavy-head neighbour, Gaffer Wheat. “Who dare thrash _us_, we should like to know! Grind us, and bag us, and use us so! Let meaner and shabbier things than we So stupidly bend to utility!” So said little Red-cap, and all the rout Of the Poppy-clan set up a mighty shout; Mighty for them, but if _you_ had heard You had thought it the cry of a tiny bird. So the Poppy-folk flaunted it over the field, In pride of grandeur they nodded and reeled; And shook out their jackets, till naught was seen, But a wide, wide shimmer of scarlet and green.