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BY ALFRED B. STREET.
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The sky is a sapphire, the clouds pearly white,
The wind from the west winnows blandly and light,
Deep and rich is the gloss of the sunshine below—
The grass, leaves, and flowers all rejoice in the glow;
The shadows, cast down by the air-skimming sails,
Are rippling o’er hill-tops and glancing o’er vales;
’Tis the day for our pic-nic; let’s haste, or the sun