Again, beside the roadside, blows
The pink, sweet-scented brier-rose;
Its purple head the clover raises;
And all the fields are full of daisies;
And in the sunshine flutters by
A little white-winged butterfly.
From flower to flower I watch him go;
He seems a floating flake of snow:
Now to a milkweed bloom he's clinging;
There on a buttercup he's swinging;
And now he makes a little stop
Upon a scented thistle-top.
Could we change places, he and I,
And I should turn a butterfly,
How gayly, then, I'd hover over
The elder-flowers and tufts of clover!
I'd feast on honey all the day,
With nobody to say me nay.
But, could I only honey eat,
'Twould grow as tiresome as sweet:
The pretty flowers would quickly wither;
And, all day flying hither, thither,
My wings would ache: I'm glad that I
Am not that little butterfly.
MARIAN DOUGLAS.
THE YOUNG CRITIC.
Ernest is five years old; and for three years he has been a subscriber
to "The Nursery," the pictures in which he has enjoyed very much.
Last autumn, his parents took him with them to France.
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