THE PASSING OF THE ROSE

A White Rose said, "How fair am I.
Behold a flower that cannot die!"
A lover brushed the dew aside,
And fondly plucked it for his bride.
"A fitting choice!" the White Rose cried.
The maiden wore it in her hair;
The Rose, contented to be there,
Still proudly boasted, "None so fair!"
Then close she pressed it to her lips,
But, weary of companionships,
The flower within her bosom slips.
O'ercome by all the beauty there,
It straight confessed, "Dear maid, I swear
'Tis you, and you alone, are fair!"
Turning its humbled head aside,
The envious Rose, lamenting, died.

A VALENTINE

[From a Very Little Boy to a Very Little Girl]

THIS is a valentine for you.
Mother made it. She's real smart,
I told her that I loved you true
And you were my sweetheart.
And then she smiled, and then she winked,
And then she said to father,
"Beginning young!" and then he thinked,
And then he said, "Well, rather."
Then mother's eyes began to shine,
And then she made this valentine:
"If you love me as I love you,
No knife shall cut our love in two,"
And father laughed and said, "How new!"
And then he said, "It's time for bed."
So, when I'd said my prayers,
Mother came running up the stairs
And told me I might send the rhymes,
And then she kissed me lots of times.
Then I turned over to the wall
And cried about you, and—that's all.