XXVIII. The Daisy.

Papa, said Eugene, is a daisy a book?

I thought it was only a flower;

Just now I ran down in the meadow, and look,

I have found one all wet with a shower.

A book would be spoil'd, you know, left in the

rain;

And could not be read for the dirt?

But a daisy all day in the wet may remain,

Without in the least being hurt.

You are right, said papa, with a smile, but you'll

find

The Daisy a book, my boy, too,

Containing short tales for the juvenile mind,

And adapted for children like you.

And call'd as it is by so humble a name,

This hint indirectly conveys;

Like the flow'ret it spreads, unambitious of fame,

Nor intrudes upon critical gaze.