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Show THE GARDEN. Choked vritti iU weeds my garden lay a-dying. Hard was the ground ; no bud had heart to blow, let shone your smile there, with your soft breath sighing, "Have patience, for some day the flowers will grow." Borne weeds you kiUed ; you made a plot and tilled it. "My plot," you sliid, "rich harvest yet shall give," With sun warmed seeds of hope your dear hands filled it. With rain soft tears of pity bade them live. Bo, weak among the weeds that had withstood you. One little pure white flower grew by and by. Ton could not pluck my flower. Alas, how should you? Yoa Bet the seed, but let the blossom die. Pall Mall Budget |