Burbank has none that’s better than my purest Cherokee,
With its dainty white so spotless, and his naive simplicity.
“And here is the Phevitia, and there the Bottle Brush,
The Myrtle bloom so solemn, and now I can but blush—
The Holy Spirit’s plant, my very humblest flower,
That worships the gracious Father from his lowly bower.
“Now take your fill of orange, of grape-fruit and of lime;
Your choice, sir, of the kumquat, or the loquart in its prime.”
“Oh, my good sir,” cried I, with gladdest heart and head,
“’Tis Heaven’s own ante-chamber, this brightest Bishop-stead.”