Part 27 (2/2)

Who ever heard of roses blue?

Your sense of truth, Ma'am, must be small, To call yourself a rose at all.”

The Blue Rose proudly raised her head; ”Your humble servant, Ma'am!” she said.

”My family, I own, is far From being such as you, Ma'am, are.

We blossomed lately in the sky, A fairy plucked us, floating by, And flung us down to earth, that we Might show what roses _ought_ to be.

So, while we still adorn the earth, Our hue attests our skyey birth.”

Just then _my_ Rose came through the room; And in her hand, in wondrous bloom, A lovely snow-white bud she bore, With diamond dew-drops sprinkled o'er.

She laid it in my hand, and ”See,”

She said, ”how fair a rose may be!”

The paper roses, Blues and Reds, For shame hung down their silly heads.

I watched them, laughing, as I lay, But not another word said they.

II.

MY j.a.pANESE FAN.

I have a friend, a little friend, Who lives upon a fan; Perhaps he is a woman, Perhaps she is a man.

His clothes they are so very queer, So _very_ queer, in sooth, I sometimes call him ”lovely maid,”

And sometimes ”gentle youth.”

Her hair is combed up straight and smooth Above his pretty face.

His looks are full of friendliness; Her att.i.tude, of grace.

And every morning when I wake, And every evening too, She greets me with his pleasant smile, And friendly ”How-d'ye-do?”

She wonders why I lie in bed; He thinks my wisest plan Would be to come and live with her Upon a paper fan.

But that, alas! can never be; And so I never can Know whether he's a woman, Or whether she's a man.

MARJORIE'S KNITTING.

In the chimney-corner our Marjorie sits, Softly singing the while she knits.

The fire-light, flickering here and there, Plays on her face and her s.h.i.+ning hair;

And glimmering bright in the fitful glow, Backward and forward her needles go,-- Backward and forward, swift and true,-- And hark! the needles are singing too.

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