Page 46 of 67 CLOVER-BLOSSOM. - Flower Fables

CLOVER-BLOSSOM.

IN a quiet, pleasant meadow,

Beneath a summer sky,

Where green old trees their branches waved,

And winds went singing by;

Where a little brook went rippling

So musically low,

And passing clouds cast shadows

On the waving grass below;

Where low, sweet notes of brooding birds

Stole out on the fragrant air,

And golden sunlight shone undimmed

On all most fresh and fair;--

There bloomed a lovely sisterhood

Of happy little flowers,

Together in this pleasant home,

Through quiet summer hours.

No rude hand came to gather them,

No chilling winds to blight;

Warm sunbeams smiled on them by day,

And soft dews fell at night.

So here, along the brook-side,

Beneath the green old trees,

The flowers dwelt among their friends,

The sunbeams and the breeze.

One morning, as the flowers awoke,

Fragrant, and fresh, and fair,

A little worm came creeping by,

And begged a shelter there.

"Ah! pity and love me," sighed the worm,

"I am lonely, poor, and weak;

A little spot for a resting-place,

Dear flowers, is all I seek.

I am not fair, and have dwelt unloved

By butterfly, bird, and bee.

They little knew that in this dark form

Lay the beauty they yet may see.

Then let me lie in the deep green moss,

And weave my little tomb,

And sleep my long, unbroken sleep

Till Spring's first flowers come.

Then will I come in a fairer dress,

And your gentle care repay

By the grateful love of the humble worm;

Kind flowers, O let me stay!"

But the wild rose showed her little thorns,

While her soft face glowed with pride;

The violet hid beneath the drooping ferns,

And the daisy turned aside.

Little Houstonia scornfully laughed,

As she danced on her slender stem;

While the cowslip bent to the rippling waves,

And whispered the tale to them.

A blue-eyed grass looked down on the worm,

As it silently turned away,

And cried, "Thou wilt harm our delicate leaves,

And therefore thou canst not stay."

Then a sweet, soft voice, called out from far,

"Come hither, poor worm, to me;

The sun lies warm in this quiet spot,

And I'll share my home with thee."

The wondering flowers looked up to see

Who had offered the worm a home:

'T was a clover-blossom, whose fluttering leaves

Seemed beckoning him to come;

It dwelt in a sunny little nook,

Where cool winds rustled by,

And murmuring bees and butterflies came,

		"The movie is not a piece of life, but a piece of cake." Alfred Hitchcock

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