  ’Twas a cold, rough day As we sped away In the grand old Michigan woods; And the forest flowers, ’Mid the windy hours, Hid back in their wee, warm hoods. But we searched the ground, And the red drops found ’Neath their shining parasols green; Two or three on a stem, Each a round, ruby gem, ’Neath coverts of emerald sheen. O little, bright globes! In your wee, red robes, And hid under sweet, scented leaves, O why do you grow, Hid away till the snow Its great white coverlet weaves? But the berries cried, “We were made to hide, Till the dear, little hands shall come And bear us away For their own sweet play, In the corner of some glad home.” endpaper divider |
|
