A little seed lay in the ground,

And soon began to sprout;

“Now which of all the flowers around,”

It mused, “shall I come out?

“The lily’s face is fair and proud,

But just a trifle cold;

The rose, I think, is rather loud,

And then, its fashion’s old.

“The violet is very well,

But not a flower I’d choose;

Nor yet the canterbury bell,–

I never cared for blues.

“Petunias are by far too bright,

And vulgar flowers beside;

The primrose only blooms at night,

And peonies spread too wide.”

“And so it criticized each flower,

This supercilious seed;

Until it woke one summer hour,

And found itself a weed.

By Mildred Howells, in St. Nicholas

(Taken from Friends Intelligencer and Journal)