The arbutus and the golden-rod

The heart of the North may cheer,
And the mountain laurel for Maryland
Its royal clusters rear;
And jasmine and magnolia

The crest of the South adorn;
But the wide Republic's emblem
Is the bounteous, golden Corn!

- Edna Dean Proctor.

MAIZE FOR THE NATION'S EMBLEM.

[PON a hundred thousand plains

UPON a hung

Its banners rustle in the breeze,

O'er all the nation's wide domains,

From coast to coast betwixt the seas.

It storms the hills and fills the vales,
It marches like an army grand,
The continent its presence hails,
Its beauty brightens all the land.

Far back through history's shadowy page
It shines a power of boundless good,
The people's prop from age to age,
The one unfailing wealth of food.

God's gift to the New World's great need,
That helps to build the nation's strength,

Up through beginnings rude to lead

A higher race of men at length.

How straight and tall and stately stand
Its serried stalks upright and strong!
How nobly are its outlines planned!
What grace and charm to it belong!

What splendid curves in rustling leaves!
What richness in its close-set gold!
What largess in its clustered sheaves,
New every year, though ages old!

America! from thy broad breast

It sprang, beneficent and bright, Of all the gifts from heaven the best, For the world's succor and delight.

Then do it honor, give it praise!

A noble emblem should be ours: Upon thy fair shield set thy Maize,

More glorious than a myriad flowers.

And let the States their garlands bring,
Each its own lovely blossom-sign;
But leading all, let Maize be king,
Holding its place by right divine.

Celia Thaxter.

No morn no noon

No dawn

No sky

no dusk no proper time of day no earthly view

No distance looking blue

No road

no street

no "t'other side the way"

No end to any Row

No indications where the crescents go -
No top to any steeple —

No recognitions of familiar people —
No courtesies for showing 'em.

No news from any foreign coast ·

No park — no ring- no afternoon gentility—

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member-

No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds-
November!

Thomas Hood.

IN NOVEMBER.

OFT, sweet, and sad in its pathetic glory,
The pale November sunshine floods the earth,

Like a bright ending to a mournful story,

Or, in a minor tune, a chord of mirth.

Before the wet west wind forever drifting,

The falling leaves fly o'er the garden walks;

The wet west wind the bare, gaunt branches lifting, And bowing to black mold the withered stalks.

The blackbird whistles to the lingering thrushes,
The wren chirps welcome to the hardy tit,
While the brave robin, 'neath the holly-bushes,
Sees what of berried store still gleams for it.

And the heart, sad for vanished hopes, in turning
Back to lost summers from the winter's chill,
Sees the rich promise through the weary yearning,
That heaven and spring will each our trust fulfill.
-Susan Kelly Phillips.

A DAY OF THE INDIAN
SUMMER

DAY of golden beauty! Through the night

The hoar-frost gathered, o'er each

leaf and spray

Weaving its filmy network; thin and bright,

And shimmering like silver in the ray

Of the soft sunny morning; turf and tree
Pranct in its delicate embroidery,

And every withered stump and mossy stone,
With gems incrusted and with seed pearl sown;
While in the hedge the frosted berries glow,
The scarlet holly and the purple sloe,

And all is gorgeous, fairy-like and frail
As the famed gardens of the Arabian tale.

How soft and still the autumnal landscape lies,
Calmly outspread beneath the smiling skies;
As if the earth, in prodigal array

Of gems and broidered robes kept holiday;
Her harvest yielded and her work all done,
Basking in beauty 'neath the autumn sun!

— Sarah Helen Whitman.

THE INDIAN SUMMER.

HAT soft autumnal time

THA

Is come, that sheds, upon the naked scene, Charms only known in this our northern climeBright seasons, far between.

The woodland foliage now

Is gathered by the wild November blast;
E'en the thick leaves upon the poplar's bough
Are fallen, to the last.

The mighty vines, that round

The forest trunks their slender branches bind,
Their crimson foliage shaken to the ground,
Swing naked in the wind.

Some living green remains

By the clear brook that shines along the lawn; But the sear grass stands white o'er all the plains, And the bright flowers are gone.