One flower within my garden grows—
My friend's is crowded,
But mine is rarer than the rose,
My skies unclouded.
I shield it when the north winds blow
So harsh across it,
I cannot let them kiss it so,
And rudely toss it.

So beautiful it is and frail,
I almost dread
The butterflies that soar and sail
So near its bed.
I envy not the wealth of flowers
Across the way;
My radiant flower exhales perfume
For me each day.

My gratitude to Heaven for this,
My one late flower;
And such a sense of rapturous bliss
Ascends each hour.
Dear Heaven, still a gift bestow
And grant to me
The grace to train my flower to grow
For Heaven and Thee.

And yet, because I love it so
My heart will fail,
When life's rude tempests 'gin to blow
My blossom frail.
Help me to shield it from the rain—
From winter's blast—
And I will give it back again
To Thee at last.

A crow flew down from a tall oak tree,
Just as important as he could be;
For a Congress of birds was to meet that day,
And he had determined to have his say.
He plumed his feathers and looked severe,
As the birds flew in from far and near.
A Mocking Bird sat on a limb near by,
With a desperate look in his round, dark eye;
He was the culprit—a thief he had been,
The Thrush and the Blackbird had "run him in."
He had stolen the nest of the little brown Wren
From the tangled depth of a shady glen.
The Hawk was the Judge, and sat in state,
Ready to seal the prisoner's fate.
"A thief is worse," said the Bobolink,
"Than anything else on earth, I think."
But—"Order in Court"—rang close to his ear,
Robin, the Sheriff, was standing near.
Then the Crow began in his deep sub-bass,
And his pompous manner to plead the case.
He spoke of the prisoner's youth at first,
But a murmur of scorn from the audience burst,
So he changed his tactics and said: "I hear
Of late the prisoner has acted queer.
In fact, I can make it to you quite plain
That most of his ancestors were insane.
Young as he is, and with such a taint,
'Tis folly to make against him complaint."
He talked till the Mocking Bird felt secure,
Feeling acquittal was coming sure.
Then the Owl rose up, and his blinking eyes,
Droll and uncanny, looked wondrous wise:
"Tu whit, tu whoo! You will find it vain
To plead that the prisoner's now insane;
Insane, did you say? Oh, well, perhaps—
But there is a prison for all such chaps,
The Mocking Bird's record has always been
Soiled and blotted by many a sin.
If this were the first of his insane tricks—
But the family trait to the fellow sticks.
Only last week—but you all have heard—
How he broke up the home of the Humming Bird.
Stealing and