GOLDEN-ROD
Pretty, slender golden-rod, Like a flame of light, On the quiet, lonely way, Glows your torch so bright.
With your glorious golden staff, Gay in autumn hours, Now you lead to wintry rest, All the lovely flowers.
Cheering with a joyous face, All that pass you by, How you light the meadows round, With your head so high. Anna E. Skinner.
THE LITTLE WEED
“You’re nothing but a weed,” said the children in the fall. The little weed hung its head in sorrow. No one seemed to think that a weed was of any use.
By and by the snow came and the cold winds blew. There were many hungry little birds hunting for food.