HERBS OF GRACE.

v.

LAVENDER.

Grey walls that lichen stains,

That take the sun and the rains,

Old, stately and wise;

Clipt yews, old lawns flag-bordered,

In ancient ways yet ordered;

South walks where the loud bee plies

Daylong till Summer flies;—

Here grows Lavender, here breathes England.

Gay cottage gardens, glad,

Comely, unkempt and mad,

Jumbled, jolly and quaint;

Nooks where some old man dozes;

Currants and beans and roses

Mingling without restraint;

A wicket that long lacks paint;—

Here grows Lavender, here breathes England.

Sprawling for elbow-room,

Spearing straight spikes of bloom,

Clean, wayward and tough;

Sweet and tall and slender,

True, enduring and tender,

Buoyant and bold and bluff,

Simplest, sanest of stuff;—

Thus grows Lavender, thence breathes England.

Baker. "WHAT'S WRONG WITH THE LITTLE CHAP?"

Mother. "I GIVE IT UP. I'VE GIVEN HIM A BUN—I DON'T KNOW WHAT MORE 'E WANTS. I CAN'T GET 'IM TO REALISE THERE'S A WAR ON."