--_Shakspeare._



"Belle et douce Marguerite, aimable soeur du roi Kingcup,"
enthusiastically exclaims genial Leigh Hunt, "we would tilt for
thee with a hundred pens against the stoutest poet that did not
find perfection in thy cheek." And yet, who would have the heart
to slander the daisy, or cause a blush of shame to tint
its whiteness? Tastes vary, and poets may value the flower
differently; but a rash, deliberate condemnation of the daisy is
as likely to become realized as is a harsh condemnation of the
innocence and simplicity of childhood. So the chivalric Hunt need
not fear being invoked from the silence of the grave to take part
in a lively tournament for "belle et douce Marguerite."

Subjectively, the daisy is a theme upon which we love to linger.
In our natural state, when flesh and spirit are both models
of meekness, two objects are wont to throw us into a kind of
ecstasy: a row of nicely painted white railings, and a bunch of
fresh daisies. These waft us back along a vista of years, peopled
with scenes the most entrancing, and fancies the most pleasing.
They call up at once the old country home: the honeysuckle
clasping the thatched cottage, contrasting so prettily with the
white fence in front: the sloping fields of green painted with
daisies, through which, unshackled, the buoyant breeze swept so
peacefully. It was an invariable rule, in those days, to
troop through the meadows at early morn and, like a young
knight-errant, bear home in triumph "Marguerite," the peerless