"I don't think it nice at all, (I would make a fuss), Goldenrod should bloom, of course, In the spring with us!

"It is hard to wait so long, Till midsummer hours; I should get discouraged, quite, Waiting so for flowers."

Near the wall a modest plant Twinkled in the dew; She heard all that had been said,-- Mayflower never knew.

Soon she whispered to a robin; He her secret told,-- "All this waiting means a changing Into sunny gold!"

THE VISITANT

In middle age, before the hearth, Deeply absorbed in counting o'er Successes won, he hardly heard The fall of footsteps on the floor.

Behind his chair a fair Youth stood, In phantom shape, and listening heard: "I'm happier now than when a boy!"-- The visitant neither turned nor stirred.

Tenderly sad, Lost Youth mused low, "He's gained at length Fortune's bequest,-- When I slipped slowly from his grasp, He cried, 'My Boyhood days are best!'

But, no--though learned 'mid falling tears,-- One's best days come with Manhood's years!"

WORK AND WORRY

Discouraged and sad, Work came home, worn out, (Only a part of his task was done), And the Master asked in an anxious tone, If he had been hindered by any one.

"A stranger stood by as I toiled," he said, "A being possessed of gigantic frame!"

"He's stolen your strength," the Master cried, "And Worry--too true--is the monster's name!"

THE PRIZE WINNER

"The world owes me a living," p'r'aps you've heard a body say, "It is best to take life easy--'tis, in fact, the only way."

So with loiterers and sluggards he in base contentment lies, While the man who works and struggles is the one who wins the prize.

Some grope always in the valley--really can they ever stop To consider what enchantment hovers round the mountain top?

But the man who clambers upward, step by step the weary rise, Obtains vistas only dreamed of--he's the one who wins the prize!

Some wait ever for the morrow--let the present hours slip by: "So little can be done to-day, what's the use to try?"

Notice, he who grasps the moments, lad, every one that flies, Is the man in life's sharp contest who obtains the victor's prize.

TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW

TO-DAY

A sunless sky, Unaccomplished aim, The flag of Hope at half mast furled,-- A bitter cry, "I've tried--no gain,-- O empty, disappointing world!"

TO-MORROW

A rosy light, Success attained, The banner of Victory to the breezes hurled,-- A cry of might, "The mastery gained, Hail! glorious, G.o.d-given world!"

A BEAUTIFUL RESULT

A beautiful smile in His service, A beautiful word of cheer, A beautiful act unselfish, A beautiful hint, "He'll hear."

A beautiful tear sympathetic, A beautiful allaying of strife, A beautiful touch of a brother,-- The result is a beautiful life.

THE CRIPPLED HERO

(A CUBAN INCIDENT)

Pedro Rionda and his sons, Leandro and Rame, Had left th' insurgent army For a visit home that day.

And ere the time came to depart, To join their ranks once more, Jose, the little crippled son, Chanced to glance out the door.

His pinched face suddenly grew white,-- Yet calm he turned about; a??Father, Leandro, Rame--quick!

The Spanish are without!"

Pedro Rionda's heart stood still, He grasped his trusty gun,-- A Spanish army couldn't make A Cuban patriot run!

His breath came quick--he thought aloud, "If we should face the band, They are too many--there'd be three,-- Three less to save the land!

"Oh, G.o.d! it is the only thing!

Ita??s one or three--Jose!

Think you could keep the devils back Till we are safe away!

"It may be death," he spoke it soft, "When they don't find us here,-- Our country needs her able men; Speak, Jose, have you fear?a?

"No; father, no--quick, brothers, go!

It's all I have to give,-- It matters not if I am shot,-- Our country--it must live!"

One long embrace--and they are off!

Bang! bang! a??twas Josea??s gun,-- The Spanish b.a.l.l.s came whizzing fast,-- He met them, one by one.