Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered been;
But the stout old ivy shall never fade
From its hale and hearty green. 
The brave old plant in its lonely days
Shall fatten upon the past;
For the stateliest building man can raise
Is the ivy’s food at last. 
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.

CHARLES DICKENS.

THE NOBLE NATURE.

“The Noble Nature,” by Ben Jonson (1574-1637), needs no plea.  A small virtue well polished is better than none.

It is not growing like a tree
In bulk doth make man better be;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear
A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and die that night,—­
It was the plant and flower of light. 
In small proportions we just beauties see;
And in short measures life may perfect be.

BEN JONSON.

 THE FLYING SQUIRREL.

“The Flying Squirrel” is an honest account of a live creature that won his way into scores of hearts by his mad pranks and affectionate ways. 
 It is enough that John Burroughs has commended the poem.

    Of all the woodland creatures,
      The quaintest little sprite
    Is the dainty flying squirrel
      In vest of shining white,
    In coat of silver gray,
      And vest of shining white.

    His furry Quaker jacket
      Is trimmed with stripe of black;
    A furry plume to match it
      Is curling o’er his back;
    New curved with every motion,
      His plume curls o’er his back.

    No little new-born baby
      Has pinker feet than he;
    Each tiny toe is cushioned
      With velvet cushions three;
    Three wee, pink, velvet cushions
      Almost too small to see.

    Who said, “The foot of baby
      Might tempt an angel’s kiss”? 
    I know a score of school-boys
      Who put their lips to this,—­
    This wee foot of the squirrel,
      And left a loving kiss.

    The tiny thief has hidden
      My candy and my plum;
    Ah, there he comes unbidden
      To gently nip my thumb,—­
    Down in his home (my pocket)
      He gently nips my thumb.

    How strange the food he covets,
      The restless, restless wight;—­
    Fred’s old stuffed armadillo
      He found a tempting bite,
    Fred’s old stuffed armadillo,
      With ears a perfect fright.

    The Lady Ruth’s great bureau,
      Each foot a dragon’s paw! 
    The midget ate the nails from
      His famous antique claw. 
    Oh, what a cruel beastie
      To hurt a dragon’s claw!

    To autographic copies
      Upon my choicest shelf,—­
    To every dainty volume
      The rogue has helped himself. 
    My books!  Oh dear!  No matter! 
      The rogue has helped himself.