[Illustration: "IN THE MEADOW"]

In the Meadow

I heard the grasses talking, talking,
Down in the meadow, one summer day,
The prettiest things I heard them whisper,
Nodding their heads in a quaint wise way.

Whether they knew that I was listening,
And would tell to you their story sweet,
I know not; but surely they would not chide me;
For the gossiping winds their words repeat.

They told how they loved the golden sunshine;
How once in the gloom of a strange long night
They feared they were lost, until angel fingers
Touched them with life, and they found the light.

And how the tints of emerald landscape
Were caught from the sunlight on cloud and sky;
How dewdrops, gems from the crystal fountains,
Were showered o'er earth from realms on high.

I heard them say, how the cowslips yellow
Were bits of the sun, dropped here and there
How the lilies pure, with their snow white petals,
Were down from the wings of angels fair.

And the blue-eyed violets, shy and tender,
With breath from the censer of heaven sent,
Were bits of the sky, by the summer borrowed,
And just for the season to Flora lent.

They told how the daisies and buttercups yellow,
Marked where the feet of the swift hours trod;
When fickle they fled from the pussy-willow,
To the newer love of the golden rod.

How the bolder touches of gorgeous color
From the crimson glory of sunset came,
And touching with blood the swaying poppies,
Set hill and valley and field aflame.

Oh, they told me things that set me thinking,
Thoughts that never were mine before;
And the love of Christ for his wayward children
Filled me with wonder more and more.

How even the flowers and grasses know Him,
How He loves and cares for their needs alway,
That they take no thought for the coming morrow,
But live and trust in the bright to-day.

And may not we, who are Christ's own Children,
Blotting the present with anxious tears,
Live our joy, and leave to His mercy
The shadowy doubts of future years?

The somber gloom of the distant mountain
Reveals no path that our feet may tread,
But at its foot upwinding ever
It stretches out like a silver thread.

Down in the meadows, among the grasses,
My pillow of daisies and violets blue,
The sweetest stories of all the summer
I hear, and come and whisper to you.