A TREASURY OF STORIES, J/INGLES AND RHYMES.

SEPTEMBER.

OUNT all the plumes of golden-rod,
That by the country roadsides nod;
Count all the little feathery blooms

That make the golden-rod’s gay plumes—

So many times I love this sprite,
With sun-burnt cheeks and eye-beams bright,
Who shoulder-deep in yellow flowers,

Spends all the lazy sunshine hours.

The finches, dressed in gold and black,

Are always flitting on his track,

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