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Show LOVE LETTERS. Scarce have the orchard grasses Grown as high as your hand, When the apple twigs, in masses, Blossom as spring has planned. What are the rascals doing Perched ui there in the trees? Pink love letters for wooing The green-robed grasses, too. The winged winds are the postmen; They gather the missives true, Writ by the tiny ghost men And sealed with a drop of dew. TO And how they court their minim Emerald-kirtled dames Bless me! there's nothing in 'em! Not even the writers' names. |