Poems
     
          Hensall Horticultural Society

          I think no one will ever see
              Horticulturists such as we
          Society meetings are never a bore --
              Good speakers add to our gardening lore.
          On bus trips and garden tours we go,
              And each year we sponsor a flower show.
          Our time and talents we gladly give
              To make Hensall an attractive place to live.
          Our thumbs are green, our hands are brown
              From tending gardens at home and 'round town.
          We plant and water and weed and hoe,
              And acknowledge it's God who makes things grow.
                                                              Yvonne Reynolds
           

          Are you an Active Member

          Are you an active member,
              the kind that would be missed?
          Or are you just content
              that your name be on the list?
          Do you attend meetings
              and mingle with the crowd?
          Or would you rather stay at home
              and complain how long and loud?
          Do you give a little time
              and help to make things tick
          Or leave the work to just a few
              and talk about the "clique"?
          There's quite a program schedule
              that means success if done
          And it can be accomplished
              with the help of everyone.
          So come to all the meetings
              and help with hand and heart;
          Don't just be another member,
              but take an active part
          Think it over member,
              are you right or wrong?
          Are you an active member
              or do you just belong?
                                          Author unknown

          The Critic
          A little seed lay on the ground,
          And soon began to sprout.
          "Now, which of all the flowers 'round,"
          It mused, "shall I come out?
          The lily's face is fair and proud,
          But just a trifle cold;
          The rose, I think, is rather loud,
          And then, its fashion's old.
          The violet is all very well,
          But not a flower I'd choose;
          Nor yet the Canterbury Bell --
          I never cared for blues."
          And so it criticized each flower,
          This supercilious seed,
          Until it woke one summer morn,
          And found itself ---- a weed.
                                          Submitted by Yvonne Reynolds
           
           

             
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