THE CROCUS.

“Rest, little sister,” her sisters said— Violet purple and wild-rose red— “Rest, dear, yet, till the sun comes out, Till the hedges bud, and the grass blades sprout. We are safe in the kindly earth, and warm— In the upper world there is sleet and storm. Oh, wait for the robin’s true, clear note, For the sound of a drifting wing afloat; For the laughter bright of an April shower To call and wake you, sweet Crocus flower.”

But brave-heart Crocus said never a word, Nor paused to listen for note of bird, Or laugh of raindrop * * * In rough green vest And golden bonnet, herself she dressed By the light of a glow worm’s friendly spark, And softly crept up the stairway dark, Out through the portal of frozen mold Into the wide world, bleak and cold. But somehow a sunbeam found the place Where the snow made room for her lifted face. —Madeline S. Bridges, in Ladies’ Home Journal.