POPPY.... Consolation.

The Red Poppy is the floral symbol of consolation. The White Poppy is supposed to express, "My bane, my antidote." The juice extracted from these plants is employed to soothe the restless invalid to sleep, and to ease the pangs of disease. According to the mythology of the Grecians, the Poppy owed its origin to Ceres, who created it to assuage her grief, during her search after her daughter Proserpine, who was carried off by Pluto. The Poppy is extensively cultivated in Europe, for the purpose of making opium from it. Many species are cultivated in the garden. The double flowers possess surpassing beauty, whether we consider their delicate texture, elegance of shape, or variety of colouring. In the time of Gesner, the celebrated botanist of Switzerland, the village Damons and Chloes proved the sincerity of their lovers by placing in the hollow of the palm of the left-hand, a petal, or flowerleaf of the Poppy, which, on being struck by the other hand, was broken with a sharp sound, which denoted true attachment; but faithlessness, when it failed to snap.

The world has closed its eyes and fallen asleep;

And God looks down from His eternal throne
And shuts the eye that long was wont to weep,

And makes the wretched feel they're not alone.
MacKellar

PRIDE AND THE POPPIES.—THEIR GRANDEUR AND FALL.

"We little Red-caps are among the corn,

Merrily dancing at early morn,

We know that the farmer hates to see

Our

saucy

red faces; but here are we!

"We pay no price for our summer coats,
Like those slavish creatures, barley and oats;
We don't choose to be ground and eat,
Like our heavy-head neighbour, Gaffer Wheat.

"Who dare thrash us, we should like to know!
Grind us, and bag us, and use us so!
Let meaner and shabbier things than we
So stupidly bend to utility!"

So said little Red-cap, and all the rout
Of the Poppy-clan set up a mighty shout;
Mighty for them, but if you had heard
You had thought it the cry of a tiny bird.

So the Poppy-folk flaunted it over the field,
In pride of grandeur they nodded and reeled;
And shook out their jackets, till naught was seen,
But a wide, wide shimmer of scarlet and green.

The Blue-bottle sat on her downy stalk,
Quietly smiling at all their talk.

The Marigold still spread her rays to the sun,

And the purple Vetch climbed up to peep at the fun.

The whimsical Bugloss, vain, beautiful thing,
Whose flowers, like the orient butterfly's wing,
Are deep, glowing azure, was eager to shed
O'er her yet unoped buds a delicate red;

First crimson, then purple, then loveliest blue;
E'en thrice doth she change her chameleon hue;
And she pities the flowers that grow merrily by,
Because in one dress they must bud, bloom, and die.

The homely Corn-cockle cared nothing, not she,
For the arrogance, bluster, and poor vanity

Of the proud Poppy-tribe, but she flourished and grew,
Content with herself, and her plain purple hue.

The sun went down, and rose bright on the morrow,
To some bringing joy, and to others e'en sorrow,
But blithe was the rich rosy farmer that morn
When he went with his reapers among the corn.

Forth went they betimes, a right merry band,
The sickles were glancing in each strong hand,
And the wealthy farmer came trotting along,
On his stiff little pony, mid whistle and song.

He trotted along, and he cracked his joke,
And chatted and laughed with the harvest-folk;
For the weather was settled, barometers high,
And heavy crops gladdened his practised eye.

"We'll cut this barley to-day," quoth he, As he tied his white pony under a tree,

"Next to the upland wheat, and then the oats." How the Poppies shook in their scarlet coats!

Ay, shook with laughter, not fear, for they
Never dreamed they too should be swept away,
And their laughter was spite, to think that all
Their "useful" neighbours were doomed to fall.

They swelled and bustled with such an air,
The corn-fields quite in commotion were,
And the farmer cried, glancing across the grain,
"How those rascally weeds have come up again!"

"Ha! ha!" laughed the Red-caps, "ha! ha! what a fuss Must the poor weeds be in! how they're envying us!" But their mirth was cut short by the sturdy strokes They speedily met from the harvest-folks.

And when low on the earth each stem was laid,
And the round moon looked on the havoc made,
A Blue-bottle propped herself half erect,
And made a short-speech—to this effect.

"My dying kins-flowers, and fainting friends,
The same dire fate alike attends

Those who in scarlet or blue are dressed;
Then how silly the pride that so late possessed

"Our friends the Red-caps! how low they lie,
Who were lately so pert, and vain, and high!
They sneered at us and our plain array ;
Are we now a whit more humbled than they?

"They scorned our neighbours :—the goodly corn
Was the butt of their merriment eve and morn,
They lived on its land, from its bounty fed,
But a word of thanks they never have said.

"And which is the worthiest now, I pray?
Have ye not learned enough to-day?
Is not the corn sheafed up with care,
And are not the Poppies left dying there?

"The corn will be carried and garnered up
To gladden man's heart both with loaf and cup;
And some of the seed the land now yields
Will be brought again to its native fields,

"And grow and ripen and wave next year
As richly as this hath ripened here;
And we poor weeds, though needed not,
Perchance may spring on this very spot.

"But let us be thankful and humble too;
Not proud and vain of a gaudy hue,
Ever remembering, though meanly drest,
That usefulness is of all gifts the best."

Louisa A. Twamley.

Will you drink of this fountain, and sorrow forget?
Has the past been so blest that you hesitate yet?
Can love, when 'tis slighted, still cherish a token,
Or hearts still forgive, that unkindness has broken?
Percival.