Songs Of The Season

M Hero a warm tumbeani, Daisy, Daisy ; April Bent It to wake yon, dcar 1 How can you be so lazy, lazy ? Haven't you heard that spring is hero?" Daisy murnmred, nlcepy and surly ; " Spring'a too young yet- the air ie cool ; I don't bclieve In a sim so early - He's jugt playing at April fooi I" - Joy Alliaon, in St. Xicholas for April. Hepática. Brave blue-eyed herald of the tardy spring, Who, while tby laggard followere still sleep, Courageously tby eteadfast watch dost keep, Glad tidinga of her first approach to bring - I wonder thy sweet patience never fails, Though wintry snowa lie deep on field and bill. And from the eea the bitter blast blows chili, That no weak doubt thy trusting heart assnils ; I marvel at thy Bubtile chemiatry, Which can from the cold earth such f aith distill, And, from gray skios, euchazure as doth flll Thy gentle, upturned eyea. Oh, leeson mo, Sweet sage ! Courage and hope Fdlearnof thee, And faith that faila not iu advertity. - Apjletonn'' Journal for April. Ol Flowers. There were no roses till the flret child died, No violeta, nor balmy-breathed heart'e-ease, No heliotrope, nor, buds so dear to bees, The noney-hearted Biickle, no eold-eyed And lowly dandflion, nor, stretching wido, Clover and cowBlip-cups, like rivai seas, Moeting and parting, as the young Bpring breeze Runs giddy races playing Heek and hide. For all flowers died wheu Eve left Paradise, And all the world was flowerless awhile, Until a little child was laid in earth ; Then from it grave grew violetB for its eyes, And from ita Jipa rose-petals for its smile, And so all flowers from that child'a death took birth. -Maurice F. Egav, in Scribneror April, BHter-Sweet, With rosea, liliea and the elefantino Loto flUed our hands, and from the grapes that hung Above hiB garden, qnick with acent and song, He preseod a sweet and sleep-begetting wine, And melody intense, remóte, divine, For our delight from his own harp he wrung ; And when sense failed, so many bweets among, And very passion threatened to decline, He pïucked for us the sharp and bitter brier, Wherewith our aching brows he garlanded, And made a BUdden discord with his lyre ; Then with new color cheeka and lips grew red, And pain was straight converted to deeire ; " For thus my bitter turns to sweet," Love said. - Philip Bourke Mar&ton, in April Lippincott. Pigeona. PInk-footec), sleekly white, or delicate fawn, Or darklier-plumed, with glossy throat, where clin ga One soft perpetual ripple of rainbow rings, How often to your beauty our sight is drawn, When back froin roanaingB wide you suddenly dawn, A lovely turbulence of quick-fluttered wings, Alighting on somebrown-slantedroof )ike spring'a Pale showers of blonsoniB on an orchard lawn Our common barn-yard life. plain, stolid, rude, You haunt with tender purity aweet to note ; And gladden its dullne-Ba with your buoyant thronig In many a smooth and mellow interludo Through homelier sound serenely letting fioat Your atrange luxurioua monotones of Bong ! - Edgar Fmocett, in Atlantic Monthly for April. An April Song. Sweet April, when you try, with your siinshine and your sky, Your wind breathing low and your birds that ging together, Your miaty blue that filis the bollowB of the hilln, You can make a day of most enchanting weather I But on thia lovely morning yoTl have for your adorning Tho nreae.poO vr mr onlv ]n-o mv Aa-u„ m„ So you have no need to try, with your sunshine and your sky, To make this day the day of all the year ! et, April, do your best, with a soft wind from the west, With aunlight on the springing graas, and tender blue above - Let your singing birds eing loudly, and ycur flowera look up proudly - So may you serve the lady of my love ! O month of changcful mien - your days may be serene - Or your aobbing east wind may be brínging rainy weather - Each is a welcome day, for it takes me nearer May, When my only lovo and ï shall be together I - Edwin jV. Lewis. in Scribneror April. Merry Rain. Sprinkle, sprinkle, comes the rain, Tapping on the window-pate ; Trickling, coursinir, Crowding, forcing Tiny rills To the dripping window-sills. Laughing rain-drop3, Hght and swift, Through the air they fall and Bift ; Dancing, tripping, Bounding, akipping Through the Btreet, With their thousand merry feet. Every blade of grase around Is a ladder to the groimd ; Clinging, striding, SHpping, sliding, On they come With their buay zip and hum. In the woodp, by twig and spray, To the roots they flnd their way ; Pushing, creeping, Doubling, leapiug, Down they go To the waiting life below. Oh. the brisk and merry rain, Bringinp gladness in ite train ! Falling, glancing, Tiakling, dancing AU aronnd - Lieten to its cheery Bound I - Fleta Forrester, in St. Kicholas for April. Tho Ixver's Cholee, t( Here are rosep, red and white - " " Thanke, dear - no. Nature painte them all too bright.M " IS it BO ? " Wel], then, take this lily's face." " Chili it seems. From its calm and stately graie Coldneee gleams.1' "Look - blue violets, you eaid They were sweet!" M Beet their sweetnees seemeth Bhed At our feet." M Hellotrope, the dearest flower On tue earth!" " Nay, it fades before an hour, Little worth !" " Heart's-ease - that you'll surely keep !" " If you might Lay it on my spirit, deep Ont of Hight !" u So I cannot piease your sense ; You implore One fair gift to carry henee, One - no more ; " ïet each choicest bud I bring, You ref use 1" " Sweet, from out their blossoming Let me chooee. " Kneeling - love'a humblest slave, Do not start ! Can you guess whlch flower I crave Xrnn. flwfi?theart ?"