All the Rage.

A common wayside flower it grew,     Unhandsome and unnoticed too,         Except in deprecation     That such an herb unreared by toil,     Prolific cumberer of the soil,         Defied extermination.     Its gorgeous blooms were never stirred     By honey-bee nor humming-bird         In their corollas dipping;     But they from clover white and red     Delicious nectar drew instead         In dainty rounds of sipping.     No place its own euphonious name     Within the catalogue might claim         Of any flora-lover;     For, in the scores of passers-by,     As yet no true artistic eye         Its beauty could discover.     The reaper with his sickle keen     Aimed at its crest of gold and green         With spiteful stroke relentless,     And would have rooted from the ground     The "Solidago" - blossom-crowned,         But gaudy, rank, and scentless.     But everything must have its day -     And since some fickle devote         Or myrmidon of Fashion     Declares that this obnoxious weed,     From wild, uncultivated seed,         Shall be the "ruling passion,"     Effusive schoolgirls dote on it;     Whose "frontispieces" infinite         That need no decoration     Are hid beneath its golden dust,     Till many a fine, symmetric bust         Is lost to admiration.     Smart dudes and ladies' men - the few     Who wish they could be ladies too -         Display a sprig of yellow     Conspicuous in their buttonhole,     To captivate a maiden soul         Or vex some other fellow.     And spinsters of uncertain age     Are clamoring now for "all the rage"         To give a dash of color     To their complexions, which appear     To be the hue they hold so dear -         Except a trifle duller.     That nglige "blue-stocking" friend,     Who never cared her time to spend         On mysteries of the toilet,     Now wears a sumptuous bouquet     And shakes your hand a mile away         For fear that you will spoil it.     Delightful widows, dressed in black,     Complain with modest sighs they lack         That coveted expression,     That sort of Indian Summer air     Which "relicts" always ought to wear         By general concession;     And so lugubrious folds of crape     Are crimped and twisted into shape         With graceful heads of yellow,     That give a winsome toning down     To sombre hat and sable gown -         In autumn tintings mellow.     Alas, we only hate the weed!     And think that it must be, indeed,         The ladies' last endeavor     To match the gentlemen, who flaunt     That odious dried tobacco plant         At which they puff forever.