"And Burns to the daisy," said Lois—
'There in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snowy bosom sunward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;
But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!
'Even thou who mournst the Daisy's fate,
That fate is thine—no distant date;
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate,
Full on thy bloom,
Till, crushed beneath the furrow's weight,
Shall be thy doom!'"
"O, you are getting very gloomy!" exclaimed Mrs. Lenox.
"Not we," said Lois merrily laughing, "but your poets."
"Mend your cause, Julia," said her husband.
"I haven't got the poets in my head," said the lady. "They are not all like that. I am very fond of Elizabeth Barrett Browning."
"The 'Cry of the Children'?" said Mrs. Barclay.
"O no, indeed! She's not all like that."
"She is not all like that. There is 'Hector in the Garden.'"