Clover had been very unwilling to read the first piece, and had only yielded after much coaxing from Rose, who had bestowed upon her in consequence the name of Quintia Curtia. She felt very shy as she stood up with her paper in her hand, and her voice trembled perceptibly; but after a minute she grew used to the sound of it, and read steadily.
TRAILING ARBUTUS.
At its mingled rose and white,
Of the pink lips of children
Put up to say good-night.
Cuddled its green leaves under,
Like babies in their beds,
Its blossoms shy and sunny
Conceal their pretty heads.
And when I lift the blanket up
And peep inside of it,
They seem to give me smile for smile,
Nor be afraid a bit.
Dear little flower, the earliest
Of all the flowers that are;
Twinkling upon the bare, brown earth,
As on the clouds a star.
How can we fail to love it well,
Or prize it more and more!
It is the first small signal
That winter time is o’er;
