Elizabeth Sill.
GRANDMA'S GARDEN.
This is the way; here is the gate,
This little creaking wicket;
Here robin calls his truant mate
From out the lilac-thicket.
The walks are bordered all with box,—
Oh! come this way a minute;
The snowball-bush, beyond the phlox,
Has chippy's nest hid in it.
Look at this mound of blooming pinks,
This balm, these mountain daisies;
And can you guess what grandma thinks
The sweetest thing she raises?
You're wrong, it's not the violet,
Nor yet this pure white lily:
It is this straggling mignonette,—
I know you think it silly,—
But hear my story; then, perhaps,
You'll freely grant me pardon.
(See how the spiders set their traps
All over grandma's garden.)
Long since I had a little friend,
Dear as your darling sister,
And she from over sea, did send
This token, ere Death kissed her:
'Twas in a box, a tiny slip,
With word just how to set it:
And now I kiss its fragrant tip,—
You see I can't forget it.
Well, here I get thyme, sage, and mint,
Sweet marjoram and savory;
(Cook says they always give a hint
Of summer, rich and flavory);
Here's caraway—take, if you will:
Fennel and coriander
Hang over beds of daffodil,
And myrtles close meander.
What's next to come, one may not know—
But then I like surprises:
Just here, where tender roses blow,
A tiger-lily rises.
Here cock's-comb flaunts, and columbine
Stands shaded by sweetbrier,
And marigolds and poppies shine
Like beds of glowing fire.
A group of honest sunflowers tall
Keep sentry in yon corner;
And close beside them on the wall,
The peacock, strutting scorner,
Spreads out his rainbow plumes alone,
Or stoops to pick a berry,
Where briers climb the mossy stone
Beneath those clumps of cherry.
Now we'll turn back: you've seen but few
Of my old-fashioned beauties,
But take away a nosegay new
To cheer you at your duties;
Take pansies and forget-me-nots;
Pluck pinks, bluebells, and roses,
And tell me if you know a spot
Where flourish fairer posies.
Grandma herself no lovelier ground
This side of paradise has found.
M.A.C.