| flowers,

Flowers—-sweet flowers—we’ve plucked to send
To the city that’s far away,

Beauty and fragrance and grace to lend,
To those-—-who the live-iong day.

Must toil and toil in the noise and heat,
Where never a flower is seen—

Save those we send, with a memory sweet,
Of the meadows so fair and green.

H. M. Burnsiwe.