Poem March 15, 1900 Issue

The Root and the Flower

A Wild Rose grew by the pasture wall,
A beautiful shrub with branches tall,
With wonderful color and rich perfume.
A Daisy looked up at her rosy bloom,
"Of which are you proudest, Rose so fair,
Of your stems or leaves or your flowers rare?"
"Of neither," said Rose with a graceful bend,
"I am proudest of my roots, sweet friend."
"Of your roots? Those ugly things down in the earth?"
Here all the daises bent with mirth,
And a bobolink swinging on a twig
Sang and danced his loveliest jig—
"Of my roots," said the Rose, "for they work away,
Down there in the darkness, day after day,
Contented if only the flowers blow
Up here in the sun, while they toil below."

Unknown.

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Among the Churches
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