KENSINGTON CLOVER.

BY MARCIA D. BRADBURY.

Such a hubbub in the meadow! Such a rustling in the grass! "I feel injured," sighed the daisy, "Things have come to such a pass. To be worked in colored worsted, Ev'ry shade and line complete, Isn't very compliment'ry To a stylish marguérite." "One might call it," said the poppy, In a tone of sleepy fun, "Flowers raised by crewel culture— Only, please, excuse the pun." "Oh, don't joke on such a subject," Said an innocent, rather low, While from sev'ral other quarters Came a disapproving "No." "Really," laughed a sweet red clover, "I flushed up quite nervously When I saw a head on canvas So exceedingly like me. If the honey-bee had been there, He'd have buzzed about that leaf. Ah! I only wish he had been; 'Twould have served him right—the thief!" Suddenly through all this chatter Came a voice, like music's flow, From a little yellow violet Growing in the marsh below. All the flowers nodded silence As she said—a little pause— "What a foolish fuss, my field-mates, You have made with no real cause! "Are they fragrant? Can you smell them? Though they are so bright and fair, Do the breezes, when they touch them, Carry incense on the air? When they fade, will hidden blossoms Take the places of those dead? Shooting stems and growing leaflets Crown the drooping plant instead?" And the others, well contented, When the violet's song was o'er, Tossed their pretty heads and said they Wouldn't worry any more.