S there might be a meadow fair to view,

And many people by that way might pass; And one might see the grass, and one the dew, And one alone the daisy in the grass,

So, on the pages of a written book,

Though they to all may beauteously shine, Yet every one with his own eyes may look, And one alone the writer's thought divine.

As, in a garden husbanded with care,

Among the blossoms brilliant-hued and grand, May chance to grow a wilding, sweetly fair, Which was not planted by the gardener's hand;

Which he, if it had come to meet his eye,
Had rooted up and cast away, no doubt,
And yet some gentle nature, passing by,
Might single that frail floweret out;

So, on the page with careful labor wrought,
The writer on one purpose all intent,
A better mind may find a better thought—
A higher meaning than was ever meant.

But whether books be meadows fresh and green,
Or whether they but cultured gardens be,
Whoever rambles through them, still must glean
Only such flowers as he has eyes to see.

ADA CRANAHAN.