O, silly little Calla! why,
    You had enough to do;
Who ever thought of blossoms yet
    From such a child as you?
Grow tall and strong all winter long—
    That's what you should have done;
How came you to forget your leaves,
    Besides that little one?

I think so small a bud as hers
    Never before was seen;
I thought it was her second leaf,
    That little twist of green.
And yesterday I moved her out,
    To give her sun and room,
And found she'd made the best of things,
    And really meant to bloom.

The busy thing! The leaf she has
    Can hardly stand alone;
But I suppose she could not rest
    Until her best was shown.
I wonder if some other plants
    Will tell their secrets too,—
Your grown up sister's so discreet,
    And not at all like you.

The cross old cactus gorgeous is,—
    That cloud is silver lined,—
And over all his thorny stalks
    The smilax threads have twined.
The slender tall abutilon
    Is gay with golden bells;
The perfume from the violets
    Of hidden blooming tells;

Geraniums, the friends of years,
    Good-tempered, green old pair;
The lemon and the orange-tree
    Have long been standing there.
Among the leaves of salvia
The blossoms flame and fall;
But little Lily is the dear
    And darling of them all.