"When fortune with a smiling face
Strews roses on our way,
When shall we stop to pick them up?
To-day, my love, to-day.
But should she frown with face of care,
And speak of coming sorrow,
When shall we grieve, if grieve we must?
To-morrow, love, to-morrow."
Honeysuckle and Roses.
This was received with evident approval, and just as it ended the huge beds of honeysuckle lying on the hedge-rows we were passing, and the wild roses rising above them on long graceful sprays, nodding their heads as if desirous of doing us obeisance, caused one of the ladies to cry out, "Oh, here are the roses on our way just now! Do let us stop and pluck them to-day, as the poet advises." "Stop, Perry!" "Right, sir!" "Steps, Joey!" "Right, sir!"—and down we are in a moment gathering the spoils. "Do let the coach drive on and wait for us at the top of the next hill." "But wait, ladies, let us all put our flowers inside and arrange them when we stop for luncheon."