Down in the mullein meadow The lusty thistle springs, The butterflies go criss-cross, The lonesome catbird sings,
The alderbush is flaunting Her blossoms white as snow— The same old mullein meadow We played in long ago.
The waste land of the homestead, The arid sandy spot, Where reaper's song is never heard, Where wealth is never sought,
But where the sunshine lingers, And merry breezes come To gather pungent perfumes From the mullein-stalks abloom.
There's a playground on the hillside, A playhouse in the glade, With mulleins for a garden, And mulleins for a shade.
And still the farmer grumbles That nothing good will grow In this old mullein meadow We played in long ago!
LIVING FRESHNESS.
O freshness, living freshness of a day In June! Spring scarce has gotten out of sight, And not a stain of wear shows on the grass Beneath our feet, and not a dead leaf calls, "Our day of loveliness is past and gone!" I found the thick wood steeped in pleasant smells, The dainty ferns hid in their sheltered nooks; The wild-flowers found the sunlight where they stood, And some hid their white faces quite away, While others lifted up their starry eyes And seemed right glad to ruffle in the breeze.