Ask me why I send you here
This firstling of the infant year;
Ask me why I send to you

This Primrose all bepearled with dew:
I straight will whisper in your ears,
The sweets of love are washed with tears.
Ask me why this flower doth show

So yellow, green, and sickly too;
Ask me why the stalk is weak
And bending, yet it doth not break:

I must tell you these discover

What doubts and fears are in a lover.

Thomas Carew.

By the soft green light in the woody glade,

On the banks of moss where thy childhood played, By the household tree through which thine eye

First looked in love to the summer sky;

By the dewy gleam, by the very breath
Of the Primrose-tufts in the grass beneath,
Upon thy heart there is laid a spell,
Holy and precious—oh, guard it well!
Yes! when thy heart in its pride would stray
From the first pure loves of its youth away;

When the sullying breath of the world would come
O'er the flowers it brought from its native home;
Think thou again of the woody glade,
Of the sound by the rustling ivy made;
Think of the tree at thy father's door,

And the kindly spell shall have power once more.

Mrs. Hemans.

ALMOND BLOSSOM....Indiscretion.

The Almond tree is the first of the trees to put forth its blossoms, when spring breathes the breath of life through nature. It has been made the emblem of indiscretion, from flowering so early that frosts too often give a death-chill to the precocious germs of its fruit. In ancient times, the abundance of blossoms upon the Almond tree was considered to promise a fruitful season. The following is the fabulous account of the origin of this tree-Demophoon, son of Theseus and Phædra, in returning from the siege of Troy, was thrown by a storm on the shores of Thrace, where then reigned the beautiful Phyllis. The young queen graciously received the prince, fell in love with him, and became his wife. When recalled to Athens by his father's death, Demophoon promised to return in a month, and fixed the day. The loving Phyllis counted the hours of his absence, and, at last, the appointed day arrived. Nine times she repaired to the shore; but, losing all hope of his return, she died of grief, and was converted into an Almond tree. Soon afterwards, Demophoon returned. Overwhelmed with sorrow, he offered a sacrifice at the sea-side, to appease the manes of his bride. The Almond tree instantly put forth its blossoms, and seemed to sympathize with his repentance.

Oh! had I nursed when I was young
The lessons of my father's tongue,
(The deep laborious thoughts he drew
From all he saw, and others know,)

I might have been,—ah, me!
Thrice sager than I e'er shall be.
For what says Time?

Alas! he only shows the truth

Of all that I was told in youth.

CROCUS.... Youth.

Barry Cornwall.

THE Crocus is one of the earliest of the spring flowers, and, therefore, a fit emblem of the spring of life. It is a small flower, of variegated hues; the principal being purple, yellow, and white. The Crocus Vernus, or Spring Crocus, is a wild flower now in various parts of England, though not considered to be really a native of the country. We learn from the favourite writers, Mr. and Mrs. Howitt, that they are plentiful about Nottingham, "gleaming at a distance like a perfect flood of lilac, and tempting very many little hearts, and many graver ones too, to go out and gather."

Oh! many a glorious flower there grows

In far and richer lands;

But high in my affection e'er

The beautiful Crocus stands.

I love their faces, when by one
And two they're looking out;

I love them when the spreading field
Is purple all about.

I loved them in the by-gone years

Of childhood's thoughtless laughter,
When I marvelled why the flowers came first,
And the leaves the season after.

I loved them then, I love them now—
The gentle and the bright;

I love them for the thoughts they bring
Of spring's returning light;
When, first-born of the waking earth,
Their kindred gay appear,

And, with the Snowdrop, usher in

The hope-invested year.

You're glad

Louisa A. Twamley.

Because your little tiny nose,

Turns up so pert and funny; Because I know you choose your

beaux

More for their mirth than money; Because your eyes are deep and blue,—

Your fingers long and rosy; Because a little maid like you

Would make one's home so cozy; Because, I think, (I'm just so weak,) That some of these fine morrows You'll listen while you hear me speak My story, and my sorrows!

Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possest;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast;
Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue;
Wild wit, invention ever new,
And lively cheer of vigour born;

Anon.

The thoughtless day, the easy night,
The spirits pure, the slumbers light,
That fly the approach of morn.
Alas, regardless of their doom,
The little victims play!

No sense have they of ills to come,
No care beyond to-day.

Yet see how all around them wait,

The ministers of human fate,

And black misfortune's baleful train,
Ah! show them where in ambush stand,
To seize their prey, the murderous band!
Ah, tell them they are men!

Canst thou no kindly ray impart,

Thou strangely beauteous one? Fairer than fairest work of art,

Yet cold as sculptured stone!

Thou art in Friendship's bright domain
A flower that yields no fruit;

And Love declares thy beauty vain ;—
Of fragrance destitute!

O. S. M. Ordway.