No one knows where the alder boughs lean,

And the willow dips its head,

And the whitest pebbles sleep and dream

In their sandy, wave-washed bed.

Where the mosses creep o’er fallen trees,

As softly asleep they lie,

Lulled by the drowsy hum of bees—

No one but Cherry and I.

No one knows how the cardinal flower,

Velvety, gorgeous and tall,

Was ’prisoned fast in a virgin bower

Of golden thread for a thrall,

That the dodder spun one summer day,

When only we two were nigh;

No one else saw—so no one can say—

No one but Cherry and I.

No one knows where the blue-berries hide,

In the fern beds, thick and green,

Where the mossy floor is soft and wide,

And the sunlight sifts between

Layers of leaves, in the roof o’erhead,

With never a glimpse of sky;

Where the trillium’s cup is the wild bee’s bed—

No one but Cherry and I.

No one knows where the oriole’s nest

Swings by a silvery thread,

Backward and forth by the wild grape pressed,

That drops from the boughs o’erhead.

Where we find the first wild strawberry,

No one could tell, should they try:

For a chestnut heifer is Cherry,

And a country milkmaid, I.

—Elizabeth Walling.