EVENING PRIMROSES
While grey was the summer evening
Hast never a small sprite seen
Lighting the fragrant torches
For the feast of the Faerie Queen?
The buds in the primrose-bushes
Upspring into yellow light,
But ever the wee deft spirit
Escapes my bewildered sight.
Yet oft through the dusky garden
A dainty white moth will fly,
Or, pink as a pink rose-petal,
One lightly will waver by.
Perhaps 'tis the shape he comes in
Perhaps it is he, indeed,
Sir Moth or the merry Cobweb
Or the Whimsical Mustard-Seed!
Helen Gray Cone.
LEGEND OF THE LILY-OF-THE-VALLEY
Albert Bigelow Paine
Once when the Little Child of Bethlehem was playing, he grew very tired and thirsty, and his playmate was very thirsty, too. So Jesus ran to the well for a cup of water and hurried back with it without stopping to drink. But his playmate was greedy, for he seized the cup and drank it all except a few drops at the bottom; then he gave the empty cup to Jesus, who took it and let the last few drops fall on the grass, when suddenly, from where they fell, there flowed a little clear stream of water with lilies-of-the-valley blooming along its bank.