Phyllis' Field Friends
FLOWER STORIES
ByLenore Elizabeth Mulets
Illustrated bySophie Schneider
"When our babe he goeth walking in his gardenAround his tinkling feet the sunbeams play; The posies they are good to him And bow them as they should to him,As he fareth upon his kingly way:The birdlings of the wood to him Make music, gentle music, all the day When our babe he goeth walking in his garden."
–Eugene Field
FLOWER STORIES
ByLenore Elizabeth Mulets
Illustrated bySophie Schneider
"When our babe he goeth walking in his gardenAround his tinkling feet the sunbeams play; The posies they are good to him And bow them as they should to him,As he fareth upon his kingly way:The birdlings of the wood to him Make music, gentle music, all the day When our babe he goeth walking in his garden."
–Eugene Field
THE SNOWDROP
IN THE SPRING-TIME GARDEN
"Oh-ooo!"
It was a most delighted little cry. In fact, Phyllis was a most delighted little girl. Right here in her own garden was the first spring blossom. Phyllis's bright brown eyes shone eagerly, and her brown gold curls blew wildly as she rushed to the door to tell the family.
"It was my secret!" cried the little girl, dancing first on one foot and then on the other. "I've known for whole days that it was coming!"
"What is it?" cried Jack. "When did it arrive? Who brought it? What is it?"
"I think the sunshine brought it," said Phyllis. "I think that warm rain yesterday helped bring it. It is a little snowdrop. Come and see how lovely it is! How it hangs its pretty nodding head and how it lets the wind rock it!"
After the family had admired the little messenger of spring and gone back into the house, Phyllis still lingered.
"You are very lovely," said Phyllis, stooping lower over the little cluster of blossoms.
"I am so glad you have come. You see, when I put those dry-looking bulbs in the ground last fall, it seemed hard to believe that anything so dainty and delicate and sweet as you could come from them."
The snowdrop nodded sweetly at Phyllis's words of praise.
"I always come with the earliest spring sunshine," said the snowdrop.
"I wish I knew all about you," said the little girl, wistfully. "The birds and the bees have told me their stories. I should so love to know about the blossoms which come every summer to make me happy."
"I am a very simple flower," said the snowdrop, "but I have lived in the world for countless summers. If you like, I will tell you what I can of myself."
Phyllis drew closer to the little plant and softly touched it with her finger-tips.
"Do tell me," she said.
"I am one of the blossoms of spring," said the snowdrop. "I come to tell you that the long winter is over; that the summer will soon be here.
"I usually bear my blossoms in an umbel, though there is sometimes but a single blossom on a stalk."
"What is an umbel?" Phyllis wondered.
"An umbel, Phyllis, is a number of blossoms starting from a common centre on a single stalk."
"Your petals are not all the same size," said Phyllis. "I notice that though you really have six petals, the three outer ones are large and lap over the smaller inner petals. The outer petals are notched. How snowy white they are, and what a tender green are your grasslike leaves."
But the snowdrop only nodded its bowed head, and said not another word.
IN THE SPRING-TIME GARDEN
"Oh-ooo!"
It was a most delighted little cry. In fact, Phyllis was a most delighted little girl. Right here in her own garden was the first spring blossom. Phyllis's bright brown eyes shone eagerly, and her brown gold curls blew wildly as she rushed to the door to tell the family.
"It was my secret!" cried the little girl, dancing first on one foot and then on the other. "I've known for whole days that it was coming!"
"What is it?" cried Jack. "When did it arrive? Who brought it? What is it?"
"I think the sunshine brought it," said Phyllis. "I think that warm rain yesterday helped bring it. It is a little snowdrop. Come and see how lovely it is! How it hangs its pretty nodding head and how it lets the wind rock it!"
After the family had admired the little messenger of spring and gone back into the house, Phyllis still lingered.
"You are very lovely," said Phyllis, stooping lower over the little cluster of blossoms.
"I am so glad you have come. You see, when I put those dry-looking bulbs in the ground last fall, it seemed hard to believe that anything so dainty and delicate and sweet as you could come from them."
The snowdrop nodded sweetly at Phyllis's words of praise.
"I always come with the earliest spring sunshine," said the snowdrop.
"I wish I knew all about you," said the little girl, wistfully. "The birds and the bees have told me their stories. I should so love to know about the blossoms which come every summer to make me happy."
"I am a very simple flower," said the snowdrop, "but I have lived in the world for countless summers. If you like, I will tell you what I can of myself."
Phyllis drew closer to the little plant and softly touched it with her finger-tips.
"Do tell me," she said.
"I am one of the blossoms of spring," said the snowdrop. "I come to tell you that the long winter is over; that the summer will soon be here.
"I usually bear my blossoms in an umbel, though there is sometimes but a single blossom on a stalk."
"What is an umbel?" Phyllis wondered.
"An umbel, Phyllis, is a number of blossoms starting from a common centre on a single stalk."
"Your petals are not all the same size," said Phyllis. "I notice that though you really have six petals, the three outer ones are large and lap over the smaller inner petals. The outer petals are notched. How snowy white they are, and what a tender green are your grasslike leaves."
But the snowdrop only nodded its bowed head, and said not another word.
THE SEED
A wonderful thing is a seed; The one thing deathless for ever;For ever old and for ever new;Utterly faithful and utterly true– Fickle and faithless never.Plant lilies, and lilies will bloom; Plant roses, and roses will grow;Plant hate, and hate to life will spring;Plant love, and love to you will bring The fruit of the seed you sow.
HOW THE SNOWDROP CAME
The whole earth was bare and desolate. The trees were bare, and the grasses were broken and brown. The snow fell fitfully.
Adam and Eve sat outside the Garden of Eden and remembered the beautiful green of the leaves and grasses, and the gorgeous colours of the flowers.
Then Eve shivered and sobbed softly to herself, for the earth seemed big and empty. All had once been lovely.
Then an angel in heaven looked down and saw Eve weeping. And the angel came down to comfort her.
As the angel spake to Eve a snowflake fell on her hair. The angel took it in his hand. "Look, Eve," said the angel, "This little flake of snow shall change into a flower for you. It shall bud and bring forth blossoms for you!"
As he spoke, the angel placed the snowflake on the ground at the feet of Eve. As it touched the earth it sprang up a beautiful flower of purest white.
And Eve, looking down, saw the blossom, and dried her tears and smiled in joy.
"Take heart, dear Eve," said the angel. "Be hopeful and despair not. Let this little snowdrop be a sign to you that the summer and the sunshine will come again."
And about the feet of Eve there sprang up through the snow numberless little white-cupped blossoms. Thus, the legend tells us, the snowdrop came to earth.
CALLING THEM UP
"Shall I go and call them up,– Snowdrop, daisy, buttercup?"Lisped the rain. "They've had a pleasant winter's nap." Lightly to their doors it crept, Listened, while they soundly slept;Gently woke them with its rap-a-tap-a-tap!Quickly woke them with its rap-a-tap-a-tap! Soon their windows opened wide,– Everything astir inside;Shining heads came peeping out, in frill and cap; "It was kind of you, dear rain," Laughed they all, "to come again.We were waiting for your rap-a-tap-a-tap!Only waiting for your rap-a-tap-a-tap!"
A wonderful thing is a seed; The one thing deathless for ever;For ever old and for ever new;Utterly faithful and utterly true– Fickle and faithless never.Plant lilies, and lilies will bloom; Plant roses, and roses will grow;Plant hate, and hate to life will spring;Plant love, and love to you will bring The fruit of the seed you sow.
HOW THE SNOWDROP CAME
The whole earth was bare and desolate. The trees were bare, and the grasses were broken and brown. The snow fell fitfully.
Adam and Eve sat outside the Garden of Eden and remembered the beautiful green of the leaves and grasses, and the gorgeous colours of the flowers.
Then Eve shivered and sobbed softly to herself, for the earth seemed big and empty. All had once been lovely.
Then an angel in heaven looked down and saw Eve weeping. And the angel came down to comfort her.
As the angel spake to Eve a snowflake fell on her hair. The angel took it in his hand. "Look, Eve," said the angel, "This little flake of snow shall change into a flower for you. It shall bud and bring forth blossoms for you!"
As he spoke, the angel placed the snowflake on the ground at the feet of Eve. As it touched the earth it sprang up a beautiful flower of purest white.
And Eve, looking down, saw the blossom, and dried her tears and smiled in joy.
"Take heart, dear Eve," said the angel. "Be hopeful and despair not. Let this little snowdrop be a sign to you that the summer and the sunshine will come again."
And about the feet of Eve there sprang up through the snow numberless little white-cupped blossoms. Thus, the legend tells us, the snowdrop came to earth.
CALLING THEM UP
"Shall I go and call them up,– Snowdrop, daisy, buttercup?"Lisped the rain. "They've had a pleasant winter's nap." Lightly to their doors it crept, Listened, while they soundly slept;Gently woke them with its rap-a-tap-a-tap!Quickly woke them with its rap-a-tap-a-tap! Soon their windows opened wide,– Everything astir inside;Shining heads came peeping out, in frill and cap; "It was kind of you, dear rain," Laughed they all, "to come again.We were waiting for your rap-a-tap-a-tap!Only waiting for your rap-a-tap-a-tap!"
TO THE SNOWDROP
Pretty firstling of the year! Herald of the host of flowers!Hast thou left thy cavern drear, In the hope of summer hours? Back unto thy earthen bowers!Back to thy warm world below, Till the strength of sun and showersQuell the now relentless snow!Art still here? Alive? And blithe? Though the stormy Night hath fled,And the Frost hath passed his scythe O'er thy small, unsheltered head? Ah!–some lie amidst the dead,(Many a giant, stubborn tree,– Many a plant, its spirit shed),That were better nursed than thee!What hath saved thee? Thou wast not 'Gainst the arrowy winter furred,–Armed in scale,–but all forgot When the frozen winds were stirred. Nature, who doth clothe the bird,Should have hid thee in the earth, Till the cuckoo's song was heard,And the Spring let loose her mirth.Nature,–deep and mystic word! Mighty mother, still unknown!Thou didst sure the snowdrop gird With an armour all thine own! Thou, who sent'st it forth aloneTo the cold and sullen season, (Like a though at random thrown),Sent it thus for some grave reason!If 'twere but to pierce the mind With a single, gentle thought,Who shall deem thee harsh or blind, Who that thou hast vainly wrought? Hoard the gentle virtue caughtFrom the snowdrop,–reader wise! Good is good, wherever taught,On the ground or in the skies!
–Barry Cornwall.
Pretty firstling of the year! Herald of the host of flowers!Hast thou left thy cavern drear, In the hope of summer hours? Back unto thy earthen bowers!Back to thy warm world below, Till the strength of sun and showersQuell the now relentless snow!Art still here? Alive? And blithe? Though the stormy Night hath fled,And the Frost hath passed his scythe O'er thy small, unsheltered head? Ah!–some lie amidst the dead,(Many a giant, stubborn tree,– Many a plant, its spirit shed),That were better nursed than thee!What hath saved thee? Thou wast not 'Gainst the arrowy winter furred,–Armed in scale,–but all forgot When the frozen winds were stirred. Nature, who doth clothe the bird,Should have hid thee in the earth, Till the cuckoo's song was heard,And the Spring let loose her mirth.Nature,–deep and mystic word! Mighty mother, still unknown!Thou didst sure the snowdrop gird With an armour all thine own! Thou, who sent'st it forth aloneTo the cold and sullen season, (Like a though at random thrown),Sent it thus for some grave reason!If 'twere but to pierce the mind With a single, gentle thought,Who shall deem thee harsh or blind, Who that thou hast vainly wrought? Hoard the gentle virtue caughtFrom the snowdrop,–reader wise! Good is good, wherever taught,On the ground or in the skies!
–Barry Cornwall.
ALL ABOUT THE SNOWDROP
SUGGESTIONS FOR FIELD LESSONS
Belongs to amaryllis family.
Blossoms in early spring.
Common in gardens–grows from bulb.
Flowers generally on an umbrel–at other times single–in colour they are pure white, with drooping nodding heads. No cups for flower–three of the petals are longer than the other three. These are notched and lap over the shorter ones. Three cells to pod.
Leaves long, slender, grass-like.
THENARCISSUS AND THE TULIP
THE NARCISSUS AND THE TULIP
ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR
The tulips stood up very stiff and tall. They looked neither to the left nor the right, but straight up toward the sky. They lifted their stiff petals a little higher as if shrugging their shoulders. Their stiff stalks would have broken rather than have bent.
The great yellow daffodils stood in a long golden row just across the path from the tulips. They danced and bowed and shook their fluffy heads. They nodded in a very friendly fashion to their cousins, who huddled shyly together in the corner of the garden.
Now the daffodils' cousins were the narcissus blossoms who bloomed in quiet beauty in the garden corner. They were as tall as the yellow daffodils, and more slender.
They wore lovely broad white collars, and their golden hearts were bound with dainty pink or crimson. They seemed not half as proud and stiff as the tulips, nor half as gaudy and gay as the daffodils.
Indeed, the narcissus blossoms paid little heed to the more gaudy flowers. They just bloomed in quiet and peace for those who cared for them.
Phyllis stood in the midst of the garden and listened for the faint flower voices.
"Those are cousins of mine." The daffodil spoke to a scarlet tulip, and she nodded in the direction of the narcissus blossoms.
"Do you mean that the narcissus is a relation of yours?" asked the tulip, still looking skyward.
SUGGESTIONS FOR FIELD LESSONS
Belongs to amaryllis family.
Blossoms in early spring.
Common in gardens–grows from bulb.
Flowers generally on an umbrel–at other times single–in colour they are pure white, with drooping nodding heads. No cups for flower–three of the petals are longer than the other three. These are notched and lap over the shorter ones. Three cells to pod.
Leaves long, slender, grass-like.
THENARCISSUS AND THE TULIP
THE NARCISSUS AND THE TULIP
ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR
The tulips stood up very stiff and tall. They looked neither to the left nor the right, but straight up toward the sky. They lifted their stiff petals a little higher as if shrugging their shoulders. Their stiff stalks would have broken rather than have bent.
The great yellow daffodils stood in a long golden row just across the path from the tulips. They danced and bowed and shook their fluffy heads. They nodded in a very friendly fashion to their cousins, who huddled shyly together in the corner of the garden.
Now the daffodils' cousins were the narcissus blossoms who bloomed in quiet beauty in the garden corner. They were as tall as the yellow daffodils, and more slender.
They wore lovely broad white collars, and their golden hearts were bound with dainty pink or crimson. They seemed not half as proud and stiff as the tulips, nor half as gaudy and gay as the daffodils.
Indeed, the narcissus blossoms paid little heed to the more gaudy flowers. They just bloomed in quiet and peace for those who cared for them.
Phyllis stood in the midst of the garden and listened for the faint flower voices.
"Those are cousins of mine." The daffodil spoke to a scarlet tulip, and she nodded in the direction of the narcissus blossoms.
"Do you mean that the narcissus is a relation of yours?" asked the tulip, still looking skyward.
"Yes, indeed," said the daffodil. "We do not look much alike, to be sure. But our family name is the same."
"Now that you mention it," said the tulip, "I think there is a little resemblance. You both have those long, slender stalks and those grasslike leaves. But you wear yellow while the narcissus dresses in white and gold. What is your family name?"
"Both the narcissus and myself belong to the amaryllis family," said the daffodil, proudly. "My blossoms are larger and more showy, but there are those who like my cousin's dress the better. She is called the poet's narcissus, while I am daffodil narcissus–"
"But we children have a dearer name for you," Phyllis interrupted. "We call you little daffy-down-dilly."
The daffodil shook all her many skirts out proudly in the sunshine. Then she bowed three times until her head fairly touched the ground. The tulips still stared stiffly at the sky.
"We belong to the lily family," said one tulip, after a pause. "We wear gorgeous dresses and hold our heads proudly because Mother Nature bade us do so.
"We are dear friends of those wonderful creatures, the bees. The butterflies, too, sometimes visit us."
"I think," said Phyllis, shyly, "that the butterflies must be your cousins, or, at least, you must get your dresses from the same loom."
The tulips could not bow, but one less stiff than the others actually shook so hard with laughter that a section of its dress fell off.
"What a dear little girl," said the quiet poet's narcissus from the corner. "I am glad that we live in her garden."
It was Phyllis's turn to bow and run into the house for tea.
DAFFY-DOWN-DILLY
Poor little Daffy-down-dilly! She slept with her head on a rose,When a sly moth-miller kissed her, And left some dust on her nose.Poor little Daffy-down-dilly! She woke when the clock struck ten,And hurried away to the fairy queen's ball, Down in the shadowy glen.Poor little Daffy-down-dilly! Right dainty was she, and fair,In her bodice of yellow satin, And petticoat green and rare.But to look in her dew-drop mirror, She quite forgot when she rose,And into the queen's high presence Tripped with a spot on her nose.Then the little knight who loved her– O, he wished that he were dead:And the queen's maid began to titter, And tossed her saucy head.And up from her throne so stately, The wee queen rose in her power,Just waved her light wand o'er her, And she changed into a flower.Poor little Daffy-down-dilly! Now in silver spring-time hours,She wakes in the sunny meadows, She lives with other flowers.Her beautiful yellow bodice, With green skirts wears she still;And the children seek and love her, But they call her daffodil.
NARCISSUS
Once, in a far-away country, there lived a handsome youth whose name was Narcissus. He was a very beautiful young man. His hair was as yellow as the flax stalks when they are ripe. His eyes were as blue as the flax flowers when they bloom. His face was as pink and as white as the clouds in a morning sky.
But Narcissus sat beside a stream and wept. He looked neither to the right nor to the left. His tears flowed fast, and his heavy sobs were the only sound to be heard in the wood.
Then there came roaming by the brook side a maiden. She was as beautiful as the cool shadows of the woodland. She was as gentle as the spring breezes among the grasses. She spoke to Narcissus.
"I am Echo, the maid of the hills and the wood," said the maiden. "Long have I watched you as you mourned. Often have I called and you did not heed.
"I know the cause of your grief, Narcissus. I have heard how you once had a lovely twin sister. She was the very image of yourself.
"I have heard how your lovely twin sister has now crossed the river of Death. Now you mourn day after day and will not be comforted.
"Look up, Narcissus, I pray you! Your tears cannot bring your sister again to you. Look up, and I, Echo, will comfort you!"
Now the voice of Echo was soft and sweet, and her words were kind, but Narcissus did not look up. He bent farther over the stream which flowed so slowly just there.
As he glanced down into the water, Narcissus started in surprise. He thought he saw his sister looking up into his eyes from the quiet depth of the water. Again and again did Echo call, but Narcissus no longer even heard her voice.
Still Narcissus gazed at his own reflection in the water, thinking that he looked into the eyes of his lost sister.
Day after day he sat there gazing, and sorrowing that he could not reach her. The face in the water looked sad, and Narcissus would fain have comforted his sister.
Not for one moment would he leave the brook side. Not for one instant would he heed the sad, sweet pleadings of Echo.
Thus, sorrowing for his lost twin sister, Narcissus died. Then the voice of Echo, the beautiful, became softer and sadder. Her form became more and more slender until at last she could no longer be seen, though her voice might still be heard.
Then one day there sprang up by the brook side a slender, beautiful flower, as white as the cheeks of the maiden, as yellow as the hair of the youth.
Its blossoms bent over the water, and their reflections swam beneath. And the drooping willows, which hung over the stream, looked down at the strange new blossom, and touched leaves and whispered: "It is Narcissus. It is the youth Narcissus."
And the soft, sighing voice of the formless maiden, Echo, replied, "Narcissus!"
GRANDMOTHER'S GARDEN
Stately and prim grew the hollyhocks tall,In grandmother's garden against the wall;Fairest of flower-duennas were they,Keeping good watch through the long summer day.Close by the was the sunshiny corner, whereThe foxgloves swayed in the balmy air,And nodded across to the larkspurs blue,And the pleasant nook where the columbines grew.There were cinnamon-roses, and, low at their feet,The shadowy cluster of day-lilies sweet,And mignonette modest, and pensive heart's-ease,And boy's love, and candytuft, sweet in the breeze.And, first every morn by the sun to be kissed,Grew, all in a tangle, fair love-in-a-mist,With bachelor's-buttons, and sweet williams gay,And spice pinks for neighbours just over the way;There were sweet peas coquettish, most festive of flowers,And four-o'clocks sturdy to mark off the hours,And frail morning-glories that laughed in the lightAt the phlox and verbenas, pink, purple, and white.Ah! the days were so bright, and so sweet was the air,And in grandmother's garden all life looked so fair!
–Dorothy Grey.
A TULIP STORY
In the sweet long ago, there lived a lovely old lady in the midst of a most beautiful garden.
The old lady was quiet and gentle, and the flowers seemed to know her and grow for her as for no one else.
They sprang up beside every path.
In the earliest spring-time her tulips lifted up their stately heads and bowed as she passed among them.
The sweet old lady watered the flower-beds and pulled weeds from among the plants, and loosened the earth about their feet that they might grow taller and blossom more beautifully.
One evening after sunset, the old lady sat quietly in her garden. She watched the tulips as they rocked gently back and forth.
She heard faint, sweet whisperings among the flowers and amid the long grasses.
"They sound like the whisperings of the fairies," said the sweet old lady to herself.
"Indeed," she went on, softly, "I have often heard that the fairies dance in the dell below. Why, then, should they not sometimes wander into my garden?"
"Why not, indeed?" laughed the faintest fairy voice right in the sweet old lady's ear.
Looking up, she saw the most wonderful little creature in soft, fluttering robes of shaded green. Her red-gold hair floated in a cloud over her shoulders. Her milk-white fairy feet peeped from beneath the shimmering skirts.
But most wonderful of all, the little creature bore in her arms a baby! It was the tiniest little pixie baby, wrapped so completely in its dainty green blankets that only a wee tip of its pink nose could be seen.
"I am the Queen of the Fairies," said the tiny mother, as she gently rocked her baby to and fro. "It is but right that I should let you know that we come often to your beautiful garden."
The sweet old lady looked at the Queen of the Fairies and smiled.
"I am truly glad that you find my garden a fit place for fairies," she said. "I have often been told that you danced in the dell. I have sometimes even fancied that I heard the faint, sweet tinkling of fairy music in my garden. But never before have I been sure that you really came."
"Do you know," said the fairy, softly, for the fairy baby stirred in her arms, "do you know that it is here we come to sing our babies to sleep?"
"Then I did hear fairy music?"
"You heard the cradle-songs of the fairies, and sometimes you heard the cooing laugh of the fairy babies before they fell asleep. Sometimes you heard the soft swish of fairy dresses as we softly slid away to dance in the dell."
"And you left your babies sleeping in my garden!" said the sweet old lady, wonderingly.
"Ah," laughed the Queen of the Fairies, "where else would they have been so safe? Your tulips kept our secret well.
"They never told you that it was fairy nurses who rocked their stems so gently in the moonlight and the starlight. You thought it was the wind that swung their tall stalks.
"You did not know that in the morning each tulip held her head so proudly because all night long a fairy baby had been cradled in her heart.
"When you saw our babies' silver drinking cups which the nurses hung in the sun to dry, you called them dewdrops which sparkled in the sunlight."
"No," said the sweet old lady, "I did not know all those things. Neither did I know why my tulips grew so tall and fragrant and beautiful. But now I see it all, for fragrant and dainty and sweet must be the cradles of the babies of the fairies."
The Queen of the Fairies laid her finger to her lips with a low "Sh-h," and, looking down, the sweet old lady saw that the fairy baby was fast asleep.
The tiny mother seemed to blow across the old garden to the tallest golden tulip of them all. Then, softly singing, she laid her precious little one in the stately cup which rocked every so gently in the moonlight.
"I must be off to the dell," said she, a moment later. "You will see that no harm befalls the cradles of our babies?"
"Yes, yes," cried the old lady, eagerly. "So long as I live I shall watch over my garden with care. I will not allow one blossom to be broken from its stem."
The Fairy Queen thanked her, and the old lady was left in the garden with the fairy babies and the fairy nurses who rocked the fairy cradles.
But look as she might, the spell being broken, the sweet old lady could see nothing but her own beautiful tulips bending and bowing the moonlight.
For many years the sweet old lady kept her garden. For many years she heard the soft sighs of the fairy babies and the whispering songs of the fairy mothers. For many years she watched the fairy cradles as the fairy nurses rocked them in the soft, mellow moonlight.
Then at length the sweet old lady died and was buried in the little churchyard. The blossoms of her garden drooped on their stalks, withered, and died.
One day the old lady's son came to the spot. He was a coarse, rough fellow, and he did not love nor understand flowers.
"Flowers are but nonsense!" said he. "I shall plant parsnips in this garden. They will be good to eat!"
Then it was that the fairy mothers drew the fairy babies closer in their arms and left the garden for ever.
"He cares for nothing but eating," said the fairies, as they danced together in the dell. "But we do not forget the sweet old lady. He shall never raise parsnips in her fairy garden."
So the parsnips which the son planted did not grow. As soon as the seeds sprouted the young plants withered and died.
"It is of no use," said the son, when again and again he had failed. "But it is strange how those useless flowers which my mother planted would grow on this same spot."
The fairies, hidden in their soft green robes amid the weeds and the grasses, laughed softly together, then danced away to the churchyard. There they scattered seeds on the grave of the sweet old lady, and they watered the seeds from the drinking-cups of the fairies.
Soon there sprang up in the churchyard flowers as tall, as fragrant, as beautiful as those which had once grown in the garden of the fairies.
And even to this day, if you creep softly to the spot when the moon is full and the clocks are striking twelve, you may see the stately tulip cradles bend and sway in the moonlight. Even to this day, if you listen, scarcely breathing, you may hear the soft sighs of the fairy babies as they stir in their tulip cradles, and, listening still, you may hear the soft whispering songs of the fairy mothers as they croon soft fairy music over their darlings, on their return from their dance in the dell.
TO DAFFODILS
Fair daffodils! we weep to see You haste away so soon;As yet the early-rising sun Has not attained his noon: Stay, stay Until the hastening day Has run But to the evensong;And, having prayed together, we Will go with you along.We have short time to stay as you, We have as short a spring;As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or anything: We die,As your hours do; and dry AwayLike to the summer's rain,Or as the pearls of morning dew, Ne'er to be found again.
–Robert Herrick
ALL ABOUT THE NARCISSUS
SUGGESTIONS FOR FIELD LESSONS
Belongs to amaryllis family.
An early spring blossom–found in gardens–grows from bulb.
Poet's Narcissus.–Stem naked and flattish–about a foot in height–usually one flowered. Flower pure white, but the centre, which is short and flat, is a rich yellow, rimmed with crimson or pink.
Daffodil Narcissus.–Single flower on stem–it is a golden yellow with deeper yellow cup on the naked flower stalk. Very common in gardens–is generally double.
Six stamens–three cells to pod.
Leaves–long, slender, grass-like, with a sort of rounded ridge on under side.
ALL ABOUT THE TULIP
SUGGESTIONS FOR FIELD LESSONS
Belongs to lily family.
One of the early blossoms of the garden–herb–grows from bulb.
Stem long, leafless, and unbranching, bearing a single blossom.
Leaves all start from the ground, as do lily of the valley, etc.–leaves are rather broad and thick.
Flowers bell-shaped–six distinct petal-like divisions–colours varied, ranging in many shades of red and yellow, or in a mixture of the two colours.
THE ARBUTUS
THE ARBUTUS
FROM UNDER THE PINES
The postman rang the bell earlier than usual that morning. To Phyllis he handed a good-sized box well wrapped in brown paper.
"It's from Auntie Nan!" cried Phyllis, in frantic haste to cut the string. "It's from Auntie Nan! I know her writing! What can it be?"
By this time the string was unfastened, and the brown paper torn off. Phyllis slipped the cover.
"Oh!" she said, as though her breath were quite taken away.
"Oh!" and her pink little face was buried in the box. "Oh, where did you come from?"
The pink, pink bloom of the arbutus smiled up at her, and the delicious fragrance filled the whole room.
There were great masses of the small, fragrant blossoms. Phyllis happily lifted them from their box, and filled a big glass bowl with them. This she placed on the table in the dining-room. Their sweetness greeted all as they entered the room.
In the bottom of the box was tucked a note from Auntie Nan. It was directed to Phyllis. Would you like to read the letter?
"Dear little Spring Blossom:–Here are some of your little sisters come to keep your birthday with you. I know you will be glad to welcome them, especially when I tell you that I found them huddled snugly under some brown leaves and half covered with snow.
"'We are Phyllis's birthday blossoms,' they seemed to say, as I brushed away the leaves and the snow, and they looked bravely out.
"So I gathered every one I could find; and I send them to you, little girl, because they make me think of a certain sweet little pink and white baby your mamma sent for me to come and see just eight years ago.
"Are you not glad that you, too, are a little Mayflower, and that your birthday comes on the very first day?
"You know, your friend, the poet, Whittier, calls these little wild wood flowers which I am sending 'The first sweet smiles of May'?
"Did I say that these flowers grew out on the hill among the pines where you played last summer? They tell me that the arbutus is particularly fond of pine-woods and light sandy soil.
"Do you not call them brave to peep forth so very early? But, you see, they were really very well protected by their own heart-shaped leaves, which kept alive and green all winter just for the sake of those blossoms which were to come.
"I think it is no wonder that the Pilgrims, after that first hard, hard winter, were so happy to welcome this little messenger of spring. They called it the Mayflower. We people of New England still call it the Mayflower, but by others it is called the trailing arbutus. Sometimes, too, I have heard it called 'mountain laurel.'
"I have no doubt but that the story of the Pilgrims is quite true, for the flower still grows in its lovely sweetness all about the hills of Plymouth.
"Are you not glad that I call them your flowers, Phyllis? Are you not glad that to us, you, too, are one of 'the first sweet smiles of May?'
"Wishing that all Mayflowers may bloom more and more sweetly as the seasons go, I am,
"Your loving
"Auntie Nan."
TRAILING ARBUTUS
Darlings of the forest! Blossoming alone, When Earth's grief is sorest For her jewels gone–Ere the last snowdrift melts, your tender buds have blown. Tinged with colour faintly, Like the morning sky, Or, more pale and saintly, Wrapped in leaves ye lie–Even as children sleep in faith's simplicity. There the wild wood-robin Hymns your solitude; And the rain comes sobbing Through the budding wood,While the low south wind sighs, but dare not be more rude. Were your pure lips fashioned Out of air and dew– Starlight unimpassioned, Dawn's most tender hue,And scented by the woods that gathered sweets for you? Fairest and most lonely, From the world apart; Made for beauty only, Veiled from Nature's heartWith such unconscious grace as makes the dream of Art! Were not mortal sorrow An immortal shade, Then would I to-morrow Such a flower be made,And live in the dear woods where my lost childhood played.
–Rose Terry
ALL ABOUT THE TRAILING ARBUTUSOR MAYFLOWER
SUGGESTIONS FOR FIELD LESSONS
Belongs to heath family.
Blossoms in April and early May.
Found in woodland, especially among pines, under the dead brown leaves of autumn–grows best in sandy soil.
Stem is covered with fine hairs of rusty brown–is trailing like a vine.
Flowers are small, clustered, and very fragrant–in colour vary from purest white to deepest pink–hidden under its own broad, protecting leaves–five sepals–corollas five-lobed, hairy inside–pistil one–stamens ten.
Leaves are evergreen–on hairy stalks, heart-shaped and thick.
JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT
JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT
ABOUT A LITTLE PREACHER
Jack was reading an Indian story. He had not spoken for an hour. He only shook his head when Phyllis invited him to walk in the woods with her.
Now she peeped into the library, rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed, laughing. Jack was still with the Indians.
"Jackie, dear, there are some friends of yours waiting in the parlour," said Phyllis.
"They're late," said Jack, throwing his book down.
"Just in season," said Phyllis with a faint giggle.
In a moment, Jack came back. He was half-frowning, half-laughing.
"You fooled me that time, little sister," he said. "There is no one waiting for me!"
"Oh, yes, big brother, there is a whole family in there. They are just in season. Come, I will introduce you, since you seem to have forgotten."
Phyllis led Jack into the parlour. Still he saw no one. She led him up to little side table. On it stood a vase and in it stood–
"Jack-in-the-pulpit, let me introduce Jack-my-big-brother," and then Phyllis fell into a big chair and laughed.
"Phyllis," began Jack, crossly, for now he remembered that he had left the Indian story unfinished.
"Jack-in-the-pulpit is talking to you," said Phyllis, holding up a finger warningly. "You are very rude. I'm sure you did not bow to his wife."
"How do you know which is Jack and which is Mrs. Jack?" he asked.
Phyllis opened her eyes wide.
"I'm s'prised," she said, solemnly. "I see I shall have to tell you all about your name-sakes.
"Do you see how staunchly Jack stands in his pulpit? Nowadays our pulpits are not covered over, but they used to be in olden times. In England to this day you may find these roofed pulpits."
"There are some in the old Colonial churches of New England even now," said Jack.
"Do see how gracefully this little fellow's pulpit-leaf arches!" said Phyllis. "It is light green with veins of dark green. Jack is particular, and always preaches from a green pulpit."
"But here is a pulpit stained with purple," said Jack.
"Oh, that is Mrs. Jack-in-the-pulpit. That is the purple hood which she wears to church when her husband preaches."
"Well," said Jack, "her bonnet looks exactly like the pulpit."
"Except the colour," explained Phyllis.
Jack stood a moment examining the quaint green flowers.
"I know another name for him," he said. "These plants are called 'memory-roots' by some."
"Why?" Phyllis questioned.
"That's just what I asked Will the other day, and he said if I would bite into the root of the plant I'd find out."
"And you found out?"
"I did!" answered Jack, with a wry face. "My tongue was almost blistered. It is sore yet. I know now why it is called 'memory-root.'
"Will told me afterward that the Indians boiled these roots for food. He said he tried it himself once when he was camping and playing Indian. The acid seems quite gone after cooking, and they are rather tasteless and good for nothing. Please, little sister, may I go back to my story now?"
"You may," said Phyllis, laughing, "if you think the sermon is over!"
"I came near not understanding the sermon," said Jack. "Do you know what he said to me?"
"Yes," said Phyllis, "I hope I shall always listen as you did, Jackie."
I wonder if you know what the children meant by the lesson that those little green flowers taught Jack.
JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT
Jack-in-the-pulpit Preaches to-dayUnder the green trees Just over the way.Squirrel and song-sparrow, High on their perch,Hear the sweet lily-bells Ringing to church.Come, hear what his reverence Rises to say–In his low, painted pulpit, This calm Sabbath day.Fair is the canopy Over him seen,Pencilled by Nature's hand, Black, brown, and green.Green is his surplice, Green are his bands;In his queer little pulpit, The little priest stands.In black and gold velvet, So gorgeous to see,Comes with his bass voice, The chorister bee.Green fingers are playing Unseen on wind-lyres,Low singing bird voices– These are the choirs.The violets are deacons, I know by the signThat the cups which they carry Are purple with wine.And the columbines bravely As sentinels stand,On the lookout with all their Red trumpets in hand.Meek-faced anemones, Drooping and said;Great yellow violets, Smiling out glad;Buttercup's faces, Beaming and bright;Clovers with bonnets– Some red and some white;Daisies, their white fingers Half clasped in prayer;Dandelions, proud of The gold in their hair;Innocents, children, Guileless and frail,Meek little faces, Upturned and pale;Wildwood geraniums, All in their best,Languidly beaming, In purple gauze dressed.All are assembled This sweet Sabbath day,To hear what the priest In his pulpit will say.Look! white Indian pipes On the green mosses lie!Who has been smoking Profanely, so nigh?Rebuked by the preacher, The mischief is stopped;But the sinners in haste Have their little pipes dropped.Let the wind with the fragrance Of fern and of birchBlow the smell of the smoking Clean out of our church!So much for the preacher: The sermon comes next–Shall we tell how he preached it, And what was his text?Alas! like too many Grown-up folks who playAt worship in churches Man builded to-day–We heard not the preacher Expound or discuss;But we looked at the people, And they looked at us.We saw all their dresses, Their colours and shapes;The trim of their bonnets, The cut of their capes;We heard the wind organ, The bee and the bird,But of Jack-in-the-pulpit We heard not a word.
–Clara Smith
"Now that you mention it," said the tulip, "I think there is a little resemblance. You both have those long, slender stalks and those grasslike leaves. But you wear yellow while the narcissus dresses in white and gold. What is your family name?"
"Both the narcissus and myself belong to the amaryllis family," said the daffodil, proudly. "My blossoms are larger and more showy, but there are those who like my cousin's dress the better. She is called the poet's narcissus, while I am daffodil narcissus–"
"But we children have a dearer name for you," Phyllis interrupted. "We call you little daffy-down-dilly."
The daffodil shook all her many skirts out proudly in the sunshine. Then she bowed three times until her head fairly touched the ground. The tulips still stared stiffly at the sky.
"We belong to the lily family," said one tulip, after a pause. "We wear gorgeous dresses and hold our heads proudly because Mother Nature bade us do so.
"We are dear friends of those wonderful creatures, the bees. The butterflies, too, sometimes visit us."
"I think," said Phyllis, shyly, "that the butterflies must be your cousins, or, at least, you must get your dresses from the same loom."
The tulips could not bow, but one less stiff than the others actually shook so hard with laughter that a section of its dress fell off.
"What a dear little girl," said the quiet poet's narcissus from the corner. "I am glad that we live in her garden."
It was Phyllis's turn to bow and run into the house for tea.
DAFFY-DOWN-DILLY
Poor little Daffy-down-dilly! She slept with her head on a rose,When a sly moth-miller kissed her, And left some dust on her nose.Poor little Daffy-down-dilly! She woke when the clock struck ten,And hurried away to the fairy queen's ball, Down in the shadowy glen.Poor little Daffy-down-dilly! Right dainty was she, and fair,In her bodice of yellow satin, And petticoat green and rare.But to look in her dew-drop mirror, She quite forgot when she rose,And into the queen's high presence Tripped with a spot on her nose.Then the little knight who loved her– O, he wished that he were dead:And the queen's maid began to titter, And tossed her saucy head.And up from her throne so stately, The wee queen rose in her power,Just waved her light wand o'er her, And she changed into a flower.Poor little Daffy-down-dilly! Now in silver spring-time hours,She wakes in the sunny meadows, She lives with other flowers.Her beautiful yellow bodice, With green skirts wears she still;And the children seek and love her, But they call her daffodil.
NARCISSUS
Once, in a far-away country, there lived a handsome youth whose name was Narcissus. He was a very beautiful young man. His hair was as yellow as the flax stalks when they are ripe. His eyes were as blue as the flax flowers when they bloom. His face was as pink and as white as the clouds in a morning sky.
But Narcissus sat beside a stream and wept. He looked neither to the right nor to the left. His tears flowed fast, and his heavy sobs were the only sound to be heard in the wood.
Then there came roaming by the brook side a maiden. She was as beautiful as the cool shadows of the woodland. She was as gentle as the spring breezes among the grasses. She spoke to Narcissus.
"I am Echo, the maid of the hills and the wood," said the maiden. "Long have I watched you as you mourned. Often have I called and you did not heed.
"I know the cause of your grief, Narcissus. I have heard how you once had a lovely twin sister. She was the very image of yourself.
"I have heard how your lovely twin sister has now crossed the river of Death. Now you mourn day after day and will not be comforted.
"Look up, Narcissus, I pray you! Your tears cannot bring your sister again to you. Look up, and I, Echo, will comfort you!"
Now the voice of Echo was soft and sweet, and her words were kind, but Narcissus did not look up. He bent farther over the stream which flowed so slowly just there.
As he glanced down into the water, Narcissus started in surprise. He thought he saw his sister looking up into his eyes from the quiet depth of the water. Again and again did Echo call, but Narcissus no longer even heard her voice.
Still Narcissus gazed at his own reflection in the water, thinking that he looked into the eyes of his lost sister.
Day after day he sat there gazing, and sorrowing that he could not reach her. The face in the water looked sad, and Narcissus would fain have comforted his sister.
Not for one moment would he leave the brook side. Not for one instant would he heed the sad, sweet pleadings of Echo.
Thus, sorrowing for his lost twin sister, Narcissus died. Then the voice of Echo, the beautiful, became softer and sadder. Her form became more and more slender until at last she could no longer be seen, though her voice might still be heard.
Then one day there sprang up by the brook side a slender, beautiful flower, as white as the cheeks of the maiden, as yellow as the hair of the youth.
Its blossoms bent over the water, and their reflections swam beneath. And the drooping willows, which hung over the stream, looked down at the strange new blossom, and touched leaves and whispered: "It is Narcissus. It is the youth Narcissus."
And the soft, sighing voice of the formless maiden, Echo, replied, "Narcissus!"
GRANDMOTHER'S GARDEN
Stately and prim grew the hollyhocks tall,In grandmother's garden against the wall;Fairest of flower-duennas were they,Keeping good watch through the long summer day.Close by the was the sunshiny corner, whereThe foxgloves swayed in the balmy air,And nodded across to the larkspurs blue,And the pleasant nook where the columbines grew.There were cinnamon-roses, and, low at their feet,The shadowy cluster of day-lilies sweet,And mignonette modest, and pensive heart's-ease,And boy's love, and candytuft, sweet in the breeze.And, first every morn by the sun to be kissed,Grew, all in a tangle, fair love-in-a-mist,With bachelor's-buttons, and sweet williams gay,And spice pinks for neighbours just over the way;There were sweet peas coquettish, most festive of flowers,And four-o'clocks sturdy to mark off the hours,And frail morning-glories that laughed in the lightAt the phlox and verbenas, pink, purple, and white.Ah! the days were so bright, and so sweet was the air,And in grandmother's garden all life looked so fair!
–Dorothy Grey.
A TULIP STORY
In the sweet long ago, there lived a lovely old lady in the midst of a most beautiful garden.
The old lady was quiet and gentle, and the flowers seemed to know her and grow for her as for no one else.
They sprang up beside every path.
In the earliest spring-time her tulips lifted up their stately heads and bowed as she passed among them.
The sweet old lady watered the flower-beds and pulled weeds from among the plants, and loosened the earth about their feet that they might grow taller and blossom more beautifully.
One evening after sunset, the old lady sat quietly in her garden. She watched the tulips as they rocked gently back and forth.
She heard faint, sweet whisperings among the flowers and amid the long grasses.
"They sound like the whisperings of the fairies," said the sweet old lady to herself.
"Indeed," she went on, softly, "I have often heard that the fairies dance in the dell below. Why, then, should they not sometimes wander into my garden?"
"Why not, indeed?" laughed the faintest fairy voice right in the sweet old lady's ear.
Looking up, she saw the most wonderful little creature in soft, fluttering robes of shaded green. Her red-gold hair floated in a cloud over her shoulders. Her milk-white fairy feet peeped from beneath the shimmering skirts.
But most wonderful of all, the little creature bore in her arms a baby! It was the tiniest little pixie baby, wrapped so completely in its dainty green blankets that only a wee tip of its pink nose could be seen.
"I am the Queen of the Fairies," said the tiny mother, as she gently rocked her baby to and fro. "It is but right that I should let you know that we come often to your beautiful garden."
The sweet old lady looked at the Queen of the Fairies and smiled.
"I am truly glad that you find my garden a fit place for fairies," she said. "I have often been told that you danced in the dell. I have sometimes even fancied that I heard the faint, sweet tinkling of fairy music in my garden. But never before have I been sure that you really came."
"Do you know," said the fairy, softly, for the fairy baby stirred in her arms, "do you know that it is here we come to sing our babies to sleep?"
"Then I did hear fairy music?"
"You heard the cradle-songs of the fairies, and sometimes you heard the cooing laugh of the fairy babies before they fell asleep. Sometimes you heard the soft swish of fairy dresses as we softly slid away to dance in the dell."
"And you left your babies sleeping in my garden!" said the sweet old lady, wonderingly.
"Ah," laughed the Queen of the Fairies, "where else would they have been so safe? Your tulips kept our secret well.
"They never told you that it was fairy nurses who rocked their stems so gently in the moonlight and the starlight. You thought it was the wind that swung their tall stalks.
"You did not know that in the morning each tulip held her head so proudly because all night long a fairy baby had been cradled in her heart.
"When you saw our babies' silver drinking cups which the nurses hung in the sun to dry, you called them dewdrops which sparkled in the sunlight."
"No," said the sweet old lady, "I did not know all those things. Neither did I know why my tulips grew so tall and fragrant and beautiful. But now I see it all, for fragrant and dainty and sweet must be the cradles of the babies of the fairies."
The Queen of the Fairies laid her finger to her lips with a low "Sh-h," and, looking down, the sweet old lady saw that the fairy baby was fast asleep.
The tiny mother seemed to blow across the old garden to the tallest golden tulip of them all. Then, softly singing, she laid her precious little one in the stately cup which rocked every so gently in the moonlight.
"I must be off to the dell," said she, a moment later. "You will see that no harm befalls the cradles of our babies?"
"Yes, yes," cried the old lady, eagerly. "So long as I live I shall watch over my garden with care. I will not allow one blossom to be broken from its stem."
The Fairy Queen thanked her, and the old lady was left in the garden with the fairy babies and the fairy nurses who rocked the fairy cradles.
But look as she might, the spell being broken, the sweet old lady could see nothing but her own beautiful tulips bending and bowing the moonlight.
For many years the sweet old lady kept her garden. For many years she heard the soft sighs of the fairy babies and the whispering songs of the fairy mothers. For many years she watched the fairy cradles as the fairy nurses rocked them in the soft, mellow moonlight.
Then at length the sweet old lady died and was buried in the little churchyard. The blossoms of her garden drooped on their stalks, withered, and died.
One day the old lady's son came to the spot. He was a coarse, rough fellow, and he did not love nor understand flowers.
"Flowers are but nonsense!" said he. "I shall plant parsnips in this garden. They will be good to eat!"
Then it was that the fairy mothers drew the fairy babies closer in their arms and left the garden for ever.
"He cares for nothing but eating," said the fairies, as they danced together in the dell. "But we do not forget the sweet old lady. He shall never raise parsnips in her fairy garden."
So the parsnips which the son planted did not grow. As soon as the seeds sprouted the young plants withered and died.
"It is of no use," said the son, when again and again he had failed. "But it is strange how those useless flowers which my mother planted would grow on this same spot."
The fairies, hidden in their soft green robes amid the weeds and the grasses, laughed softly together, then danced away to the churchyard. There they scattered seeds on the grave of the sweet old lady, and they watered the seeds from the drinking-cups of the fairies.
Soon there sprang up in the churchyard flowers as tall, as fragrant, as beautiful as those which had once grown in the garden of the fairies.
And even to this day, if you creep softly to the spot when the moon is full and the clocks are striking twelve, you may see the stately tulip cradles bend and sway in the moonlight. Even to this day, if you listen, scarcely breathing, you may hear the soft sighs of the fairy babies as they stir in their tulip cradles, and, listening still, you may hear the soft whispering songs of the fairy mothers as they croon soft fairy music over their darlings, on their return from their dance in the dell.
TO DAFFODILS
Fair daffodils! we weep to see You haste away so soon;As yet the early-rising sun Has not attained his noon: Stay, stay Until the hastening day Has run But to the evensong;And, having prayed together, we Will go with you along.We have short time to stay as you, We have as short a spring;As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or anything: We die,As your hours do; and dry AwayLike to the summer's rain,Or as the pearls of morning dew, Ne'er to be found again.
–Robert Herrick
ALL ABOUT THE NARCISSUS
SUGGESTIONS FOR FIELD LESSONS
Belongs to amaryllis family.
An early spring blossom–found in gardens–grows from bulb.
Poet's Narcissus.–Stem naked and flattish–about a foot in height–usually one flowered. Flower pure white, but the centre, which is short and flat, is a rich yellow, rimmed with crimson or pink.
Daffodil Narcissus.–Single flower on stem–it is a golden yellow with deeper yellow cup on the naked flower stalk. Very common in gardens–is generally double.
Six stamens–three cells to pod.
Leaves–long, slender, grass-like, with a sort of rounded ridge on under side.
ALL ABOUT THE TULIP
SUGGESTIONS FOR FIELD LESSONS
Belongs to lily family.
One of the early blossoms of the garden–herb–grows from bulb.
Stem long, leafless, and unbranching, bearing a single blossom.
Leaves all start from the ground, as do lily of the valley, etc.–leaves are rather broad and thick.
Flowers bell-shaped–six distinct petal-like divisions–colours varied, ranging in many shades of red and yellow, or in a mixture of the two colours.
THE ARBUTUS
THE ARBUTUS
FROM UNDER THE PINES
The postman rang the bell earlier than usual that morning. To Phyllis he handed a good-sized box well wrapped in brown paper.
"It's from Auntie Nan!" cried Phyllis, in frantic haste to cut the string. "It's from Auntie Nan! I know her writing! What can it be?"
By this time the string was unfastened, and the brown paper torn off. Phyllis slipped the cover.
"Oh!" she said, as though her breath were quite taken away.
"Oh!" and her pink little face was buried in the box. "Oh, where did you come from?"
The pink, pink bloom of the arbutus smiled up at her, and the delicious fragrance filled the whole room.
There were great masses of the small, fragrant blossoms. Phyllis happily lifted them from their box, and filled a big glass bowl with them. This she placed on the table in the dining-room. Their sweetness greeted all as they entered the room.
In the bottom of the box was tucked a note from Auntie Nan. It was directed to Phyllis. Would you like to read the letter?
"Dear little Spring Blossom:–Here are some of your little sisters come to keep your birthday with you. I know you will be glad to welcome them, especially when I tell you that I found them huddled snugly under some brown leaves and half covered with snow.
"'We are Phyllis's birthday blossoms,' they seemed to say, as I brushed away the leaves and the snow, and they looked bravely out.
"So I gathered every one I could find; and I send them to you, little girl, because they make me think of a certain sweet little pink and white baby your mamma sent for me to come and see just eight years ago.
"Are you not glad that you, too, are a little Mayflower, and that your birthday comes on the very first day?
"You know, your friend, the poet, Whittier, calls these little wild wood flowers which I am sending 'The first sweet smiles of May'?
"Did I say that these flowers grew out on the hill among the pines where you played last summer? They tell me that the arbutus is particularly fond of pine-woods and light sandy soil.
"Do you not call them brave to peep forth so very early? But, you see, they were really very well protected by their own heart-shaped leaves, which kept alive and green all winter just for the sake of those blossoms which were to come.
"I think it is no wonder that the Pilgrims, after that first hard, hard winter, were so happy to welcome this little messenger of spring. They called it the Mayflower. We people of New England still call it the Mayflower, but by others it is called the trailing arbutus. Sometimes, too, I have heard it called 'mountain laurel.'
"I have no doubt but that the story of the Pilgrims is quite true, for the flower still grows in its lovely sweetness all about the hills of Plymouth.
"Are you not glad that I call them your flowers, Phyllis? Are you not glad that to us, you, too, are one of 'the first sweet smiles of May?'
"Wishing that all Mayflowers may bloom more and more sweetly as the seasons go, I am,
"Your loving
"Auntie Nan."
TRAILING ARBUTUS
Darlings of the forest! Blossoming alone, When Earth's grief is sorest For her jewels gone–Ere the last snowdrift melts, your tender buds have blown. Tinged with colour faintly, Like the morning sky, Or, more pale and saintly, Wrapped in leaves ye lie–Even as children sleep in faith's simplicity. There the wild wood-robin Hymns your solitude; And the rain comes sobbing Through the budding wood,While the low south wind sighs, but dare not be more rude. Were your pure lips fashioned Out of air and dew– Starlight unimpassioned, Dawn's most tender hue,And scented by the woods that gathered sweets for you? Fairest and most lonely, From the world apart; Made for beauty only, Veiled from Nature's heartWith such unconscious grace as makes the dream of Art! Were not mortal sorrow An immortal shade, Then would I to-morrow Such a flower be made,And live in the dear woods where my lost childhood played.
–Rose Terry
ALL ABOUT THE TRAILING ARBUTUSOR MAYFLOWER
SUGGESTIONS FOR FIELD LESSONS
Belongs to heath family.
Blossoms in April and early May.
Found in woodland, especially among pines, under the dead brown leaves of autumn–grows best in sandy soil.
Stem is covered with fine hairs of rusty brown–is trailing like a vine.
Flowers are small, clustered, and very fragrant–in colour vary from purest white to deepest pink–hidden under its own broad, protecting leaves–five sepals–corollas five-lobed, hairy inside–pistil one–stamens ten.
Leaves are evergreen–on hairy stalks, heart-shaped and thick.
JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT
JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT
ABOUT A LITTLE PREACHER
Jack was reading an Indian story. He had not spoken for an hour. He only shook his head when Phyllis invited him to walk in the woods with her.
Now she peeped into the library, rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed, laughing. Jack was still with the Indians.
"Jackie, dear, there are some friends of yours waiting in the parlour," said Phyllis.
"They're late," said Jack, throwing his book down.
"Just in season," said Phyllis with a faint giggle.
In a moment, Jack came back. He was half-frowning, half-laughing.
"You fooled me that time, little sister," he said. "There is no one waiting for me!"
"Oh, yes, big brother, there is a whole family in there. They are just in season. Come, I will introduce you, since you seem to have forgotten."
Phyllis led Jack into the parlour. Still he saw no one. She led him up to little side table. On it stood a vase and in it stood–
"Jack-in-the-pulpit, let me introduce Jack-my-big-brother," and then Phyllis fell into a big chair and laughed.
"Phyllis," began Jack, crossly, for now he remembered that he had left the Indian story unfinished.
"Jack-in-the-pulpit is talking to you," said Phyllis, holding up a finger warningly. "You are very rude. I'm sure you did not bow to his wife."
"How do you know which is Jack and which is Mrs. Jack?" he asked.
Phyllis opened her eyes wide.
"I'm s'prised," she said, solemnly. "I see I shall have to tell you all about your name-sakes.
"Do you see how staunchly Jack stands in his pulpit? Nowadays our pulpits are not covered over, but they used to be in olden times. In England to this day you may find these roofed pulpits."
"There are some in the old Colonial churches of New England even now," said Jack.
"Do see how gracefully this little fellow's pulpit-leaf arches!" said Phyllis. "It is light green with veins of dark green. Jack is particular, and always preaches from a green pulpit."
"But here is a pulpit stained with purple," said Jack.
"Oh, that is Mrs. Jack-in-the-pulpit. That is the purple hood which she wears to church when her husband preaches."
"Well," said Jack, "her bonnet looks exactly like the pulpit."
"Except the colour," explained Phyllis.
Jack stood a moment examining the quaint green flowers.
"I know another name for him," he said. "These plants are called 'memory-roots' by some."
"Why?" Phyllis questioned.
"That's just what I asked Will the other day, and he said if I would bite into the root of the plant I'd find out."
"And you found out?"
"I did!" answered Jack, with a wry face. "My tongue was almost blistered. It is sore yet. I know now why it is called 'memory-root.'
"Will told me afterward that the Indians boiled these roots for food. He said he tried it himself once when he was camping and playing Indian. The acid seems quite gone after cooking, and they are rather tasteless and good for nothing. Please, little sister, may I go back to my story now?"
"You may," said Phyllis, laughing, "if you think the sermon is over!"
"I came near not understanding the sermon," said Jack. "Do you know what he said to me?"
"Yes," said Phyllis, "I hope I shall always listen as you did, Jackie."
I wonder if you know what the children meant by the lesson that those little green flowers taught Jack.
JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT
Jack-in-the-pulpit Preaches to-dayUnder the green trees Just over the way.Squirrel and song-sparrow, High on their perch,Hear the sweet lily-bells Ringing to church.Come, hear what his reverence Rises to say–In his low, painted pulpit, This calm Sabbath day.Fair is the canopy Over him seen,Pencilled by Nature's hand, Black, brown, and green.Green is his surplice, Green are his bands;In his queer little pulpit, The little priest stands.In black and gold velvet, So gorgeous to see,Comes with his bass voice, The chorister bee.Green fingers are playing Unseen on wind-lyres,Low singing bird voices– These are the choirs.The violets are deacons, I know by the signThat the cups which they carry Are purple with wine.And the columbines bravely As sentinels stand,On the lookout with all their Red trumpets in hand.Meek-faced anemones, Drooping and said;Great yellow violets, Smiling out glad;Buttercup's faces, Beaming and bright;Clovers with bonnets– Some red and some white;Daisies, their white fingers Half clasped in prayer;Dandelions, proud of The gold in their hair;Innocents, children, Guileless and frail,Meek little faces, Upturned and pale;Wildwood geraniums, All in their best,Languidly beaming, In purple gauze dressed.All are assembled This sweet Sabbath day,To hear what the priest In his pulpit will say.Look! white Indian pipes On the green mosses lie!Who has been smoking Profanely, so nigh?Rebuked by the preacher, The mischief is stopped;But the sinners in haste Have their little pipes dropped.Let the wind with the fragrance Of fern and of birchBlow the smell of the smoking Clean out of our church!So much for the preacher: The sermon comes next–Shall we tell how he preached it, And what was his text?Alas! like too many Grown-up folks who playAt worship in churches Man builded to-day–We heard not the preacher Expound or discuss;But we looked at the people, And they looked at us.We saw all their dresses, Their colours and shapes;The trim of their bonnets, The cut of their capes;We heard the wind organ, The bee and the bird,But of Jack-in-the-pulpit We heard not a word.
–Clara Smith
ALL ABOUT THE JACK-IN-THE-PULPITOR INDIAN TURNIP
SUGGESTIONS FOR FIELD LESSONS
Belongs to arum family.
Blossoms through the month of May.
Found along the edges of deep woods or in lighter spots in the forest.
Usually two leaves on long stems or petioles–these leaves are divided into three leaflets, with loose wavy margins–leaves taller than blossom.
Flower–green with markings of a deeper green or purple–the "Jack" is a spadix which bears the pistils and stamens–the "pulpit" is an enfolding leaf which curls over the flower in a graceful, protecting curve–from this curved leaf the plant receives its name, it seeming to resemble those old-fashioned roofed pulpits.
The "pulpit" is of a bright green, in some plants veined with a darker green, and in others stained with purple–the colour is said to show the sex of the plant–the females wearing the purple.
The fruit is a close cluster of scarlet berries–ripe in June or July.
Plant derives its name of "Indian turnip" from the fact that Indians find the bulb-like base edible.
THE PANSY AND FORGET-ME-NOT
THE PANSY AND FORGET-ME-NOT
IN MAMMA'S ROOM
Mamma had been ill for a whole week, and could not leave her room. At last she was able to sit up.
Outside in the hall there was the stealthy tread of two little pairs of feet. There was the gentlest of little taps. There was a warning "Sh." Then mamma cried, "Come in."
Jack opened the door, and Phyllis entered, with her hands behind her. Jack followed, with his hands behind him.
"Guess, mamma, dear!" cried Phyllis. "Guess what we have for you!"
"An apple?" guessed mamma.
"Something sweeter," said Phyllis.
"Candy?"
"Something sweeter," said Phyllis. "Do you give up?"
"I give up," said mamma.
The little girl placed a basket of forget-me-nots on the broad, flat arm of her mother's chair.
The little boy placed a basket of pansies in full bloom on the other arm of the chair.
"Oh," cried mamma, "how lovely! It's like bringing the garden into the room."
"Just what we said," Jack cried. "We saw these baskets of flowers as we came up from the square, and we bought them for you. You see they are planted and blossoming nicely for you. They will be just right for your window. Shall we put them there?"
"By and by," said mamma. "I want to see first if these flowers will talk to me as they do to Phyllis."
"Why, of course," said Phyllis. "I only get their secrets by watching."
"I know a lovely name for the pansy," said mamma. "My grandmother used to call pansies heartsease. I always think of her when I look into their bright little faces.
"The pansy is a relative of the violet, you know. In fact, I think it is a violet grown more gorgeous by cultivation."
"Yes," said Phyllis, "it has five petals, just as the violet has. The two upper ones are larger and longer than the other."
"Just look at the soft, velvety colours," said Jack. "See how they nod on their green stems. Never more than one blossom on a stalk, is there?"
"No, no," laughed Phyllis. "And look the heart-shaped leaves. They are thick and strong and green."
"I believe I like the forget-me-not best," said mamma. "It belongs to an entirely different family. It is not so gorgeous as the pansy, but it blossoms all summer long, just as the pansy does, and its blossoms seem to look up at one like little blue eyes uplifted.
"Look at the delicate blossoms in tiny bunches. Do you see how round and flat the corolla is? We call it salver shaped. A salver, you know, is a flat tray–and that is the reason we say the forget-me-not is salver shaped.
"Its leaves do not grow as pansy leaves do. They grow upon the stem with the blossoms, and there are many of them. They alternate upon the stem, and they are small and pointed."
"Does it grow only in gardens?" Jack asked.
"Oh, no, indeed; in some places it grows wild, in low, wet places, or on the banks of streams. But I shall be very happy with these little blossoms on my window-sill. Will you put them there for me now?"
"Mamma," said Phyllis, "I found a little forget-me-not poem yesterday. Shall I say it for you before we go?"
"Yes, indeed, that would be a very sweet way of saying good night."
So Phyllis placed the baskets in the window, and, coming back, stood before her mother and repeated these lines:
"When to the flowers so beautiful, The Father gave a name,Back came a little blue-eyed one, All timidly it came.And standing at its Father's feet, And gazing in his face,It said in low and trembling tones, And with a modest grace,'Dear God, the name thou gavest me, Alas, I have forgot.'The Father kindly looked Him down, And said, 'Forget-me-not.' "
Mamma's eyes were closed when Phyllis finished, and the children tiptoed softly out of the room.
THE FOOLISH PANSY
A dainty little pansy Stood on one toe,Stretched up her pretty head, And wanted to knowWhy she was tethered fast, Just to one spot,While zephyrs could wander Where she could not."O gentle Queen of Fairies," I heard her softly say,"Please cut the ties that bind me, And bid me fly away."I know I'm far too pretty So hidden here to lie;To look abroad and see the world, I'm sure I'd like to try.""O foolish little pansy, Your choice you're sure to rue;To soar aloft, on restless wing, Is not for such as you."But the pretty pansy pouted, And not a smile was seen,While sadly leaned above her The gentle Fairy Queen.So, weary of her sulking, At length she waved her wand;And pansy flew away, away, She thought to Fairy-land.The zephyrs changed to breezes, Then fast and faster blew,And soon beside the river The pretty pansy threw.Then leaning o'er the water, She started back in fright;For, in that faithful mirror, She saw a fearful sight.Her truant ways and temper Had seamed her forehead o'erWith wrinkles and with bruises,– Her beauty was no more.Too late she saw her error, Too late she sighed full sore;She fainted there, and perished Upon that pebbly shore.Thus ends my little story; For, down beneath the wave,This foolish little pansy Soon found a lonely grave.Shall I not take this lesson, And feel content to restWhere God in love has placed me, Assured his choice is best?
–Jenny Wallis.
THE PANSY
Out in the garden, wee Elsie Was gathering flowers for me;"Oh, mamma," she cried, "hurry, hurry, Here's something I want you to see!"I went to the window. Before her A velvet-winged butterfly flew,And the pansies themselves were no brighter Than this beautiful creature, in hue."Oh, isn't it pretty?" cried Elsie, With eager and wondering eyes,As she watched it soar lazily upward Against the soft blue of the skies."I know what it is, don't you, mamma?"– Oh, the wisdom of these little thingsWhen the soul of a poet is in them– "It's a pansy–a pansy with wings!"
–Eben E. Rexford.
THE PANSY'S STORY
A modest floweret bloomed in the glade. So shy was she that she crept into the shadow of a tall leaf. Then she spread her blossoms.
Soon there crept out from the shadows of the tall leaf an exquisite, delicate perfume. Soon there crept under the tall leaf a little singing bird, who spied the purple and gold of the floweret's blossoms. When he flew out he sang of her sweetness to all the world.
At last, one day, an angel flew down to earth with a mission of love. Now the long white wings of the angel swept close to earth. They brushed aside a tall leaf. The angel discovered the blossoms of purple and gold. She inhaled the exquisite, delicate perfume.
"Ah!" cried the angel. "How lovely you are! Too lovely to dwell alone in the shadows. You should be a flower in the gardens of the angels.
"But wait, I have thought of something even more beautiful for you. You shall be the angel's blossom, but you shall bloom in the land of man.
"Go, sweet pansy, bloom in every land. Bring to all people sweet thoughts of peace and love and faith."
Then the angel stooped and kissed the floweret, and lo, from each little blossom looked out a tiny angel face.
So it happened that the pansy came into our gardens to live. When you see the tiny faces in her blossoms will you remember the angel whose kiss was kindness and gentleness and love?
THE STORY OF THE FORGET-ME-NOT
One morning, in the golden days of the early world, an angel sat just outside the gates of Paradise, and wept.
"Why do you weep?" gently asked one who passed that way. "Surely the world is lovely, and Paradise is so near!"
"Alas!" said the angel, "I must wait long before I may enter Paradise."
"Why," said the other, "it seems but a step to the gates. Why must you wait?"
"Look," said the angel, pointing earthward. The other looked and saw a dainty blue-eyed maiden stooped over the grass by a brookside.
"Do you see those tiny blue flowers which she is planting?" whispered the angel. "They are as dainty as she is herself. They are blue as her own eyes. They have hearts of gold as true as her own true heart."
"Why, then, do you weep?" asked the other.
"Ah," said the angel, "I love the gentle maiden, and with her I would have entered Paradise. But, lo, when we came to the very gates we were not allowed to enter."
"Tell me more," said the other.
"A task was given to this earth maiden," said the angel. "In every corner of the world must she plant this tiny blue flower. I may not enter the gates of Paradise without her. Thus it is that I sit outside and weep."
"Nay, nay," said the other. "weep not. There is a better way than that."
Then he whispered in the angel's ear.
And the angel flew to earth where the maiden stooped over her dainty blue flowers. He came to assist her in her task.
Hand in hand the angel and the beautiful maiden wandered over the land. In every corner of the earth they planted the blue forget-me-nots.
Then one day, when the task was done, they sat together beside the stream and wove wreaths of forget-me-nots.
And with garlands of their own flowers about them, the angel gathered the beautiful maiden in his arms and carried her with him to the gates of Paradise.
The gates swung wide at their coming, and ever after the angel and the maiden whom he loved wandered mid fields of happiness in the land of Paradise.
ALL ABOUT THE PANSY OR HEARTSEASE
SUGGESTIONS FOR FIELD LESSONS
Belongs to violet family.
Blossoms throughout summer into late fall.
Stem–slender–nodding–single flower on stalk–low.
Leaves grow in cluster about the root and on stem–sometimes cut–often heart-shaped.
Five petals–five sepals–five stamens–one pistil–one-celled pod–lower petal has a little spur–beautifully colored in shades and mixtures of yellow, violet, and purple.
ALL ABOUT THE FORGET-ME-NOT
SUGGESTIONS FOR FIELD LESSONS
Belongs to borage family.
Blossoms throughout the summer.
Found along the banks of streams and in low, marshy places.
Stems–slender, branching, somewhat rough when rubbed upward.
Flowers–light blue, small, on a one-sided raceme, coiled up at the tip and unfolding as the flowers open–calyx five-lobed–corolla is round and flat, or salver shaped–stamens five–there is a white species of the flower.
Leaves–small and pointed–broader at the base–alternate.
THE WILD ROSE
THE WILD ROSE
BANKS OF ROSES
On the last day of June, Phyllis and her best doll went for a walk. It was a delightful day to walk. The sunshine was not too hot, nor the wind too strong.
Phyllis and her doll wandered a long way. At last they found themselves on a country road. On one side of the road was a ditch. Beyond the ditch was a steep, high bank.
When Phyllis looked across to the high bank she gave a cry of delight. I am shocked to say that she dropped her very best doll in the grass, and forgot all about her for at least ten minutes!
Do you wonder why? That steep bank was just thick with rose-bushes. They were in full bloom, and looked so fresh and pink and sweet sitting on their rustling beds of green leaves! Is it any wonder that Phyllis wished to get to them as soon as possible?
She gave a wild leap across the ditch, and landed right in the midst of the wild roses.
"Oh!" cried Phyllis, the next instant. "Oh, you have hurt me! You are not so lovely, after all!"
The pinkest pink rose of them all tossed her head jauntily.
"We are only protecting ourselves," she said. "Mot
SUGGESTIONS FOR FIELD LESSONS
Belongs to arum family.
Blossoms through the month of May.
Found along the edges of deep woods or in lighter spots in the forest.
Usually two leaves on long stems or petioles–these leaves are divided into three leaflets, with loose wavy margins–leaves taller than blossom.
Flower–green with markings of a deeper green or purple–the "Jack" is a spadix which bears the pistils and stamens–the "pulpit" is an enfolding leaf which curls over the flower in a graceful, protecting curve–from this curved leaf the plant receives its name, it seeming to resemble those old-fashioned roofed pulpits.
The "pulpit" is of a bright green, in some plants veined with a darker green, and in others stained with purple–the colour is said to show the sex of the plant–the females wearing the purple.
The fruit is a close cluster of scarlet berries–ripe in June or July.
Plant derives its name of "Indian turnip" from the fact that Indians find the bulb-like base edible.
THE PANSY AND FORGET-ME-NOT
THE PANSY AND FORGET-ME-NOT
IN MAMMA'S ROOM
Mamma had been ill for a whole week, and could not leave her room. At last she was able to sit up.
Outside in the hall there was the stealthy tread of two little pairs of feet. There was the gentlest of little taps. There was a warning "Sh." Then mamma cried, "Come in."
Jack opened the door, and Phyllis entered, with her hands behind her. Jack followed, with his hands behind him.
"Guess, mamma, dear!" cried Phyllis. "Guess what we have for you!"
"An apple?" guessed mamma.
"Something sweeter," said Phyllis.
"Candy?"
"Something sweeter," said Phyllis. "Do you give up?"
"I give up," said mamma.
The little girl placed a basket of forget-me-nots on the broad, flat arm of her mother's chair.
The little boy placed a basket of pansies in full bloom on the other arm of the chair.
"Oh," cried mamma, "how lovely! It's like bringing the garden into the room."
"Just what we said," Jack cried. "We saw these baskets of flowers as we came up from the square, and we bought them for you. You see they are planted and blossoming nicely for you. They will be just right for your window. Shall we put them there?"
"By and by," said mamma. "I want to see first if these flowers will talk to me as they do to Phyllis."
"Why, of course," said Phyllis. "I only get their secrets by watching."
"I know a lovely name for the pansy," said mamma. "My grandmother used to call pansies heartsease. I always think of her when I look into their bright little faces.
"The pansy is a relative of the violet, you know. In fact, I think it is a violet grown more gorgeous by cultivation."
"Yes," said Phyllis, "it has five petals, just as the violet has. The two upper ones are larger and longer than the other."
"Just look at the soft, velvety colours," said Jack. "See how they nod on their green stems. Never more than one blossom on a stalk, is there?"
"No, no," laughed Phyllis. "And look the heart-shaped leaves. They are thick and strong and green."
"I believe I like the forget-me-not best," said mamma. "It belongs to an entirely different family. It is not so gorgeous as the pansy, but it blossoms all summer long, just as the pansy does, and its blossoms seem to look up at one like little blue eyes uplifted.
"Look at the delicate blossoms in tiny bunches. Do you see how round and flat the corolla is? We call it salver shaped. A salver, you know, is a flat tray–and that is the reason we say the forget-me-not is salver shaped.
"Its leaves do not grow as pansy leaves do. They grow upon the stem with the blossoms, and there are many of them. They alternate upon the stem, and they are small and pointed."
"Does it grow only in gardens?" Jack asked.
"Oh, no, indeed; in some places it grows wild, in low, wet places, or on the banks of streams. But I shall be very happy with these little blossoms on my window-sill. Will you put them there for me now?"
"Mamma," said Phyllis, "I found a little forget-me-not poem yesterday. Shall I say it for you before we go?"
"Yes, indeed, that would be a very sweet way of saying good night."
So Phyllis placed the baskets in the window, and, coming back, stood before her mother and repeated these lines:
"When to the flowers so beautiful, The Father gave a name,Back came a little blue-eyed one, All timidly it came.And standing at its Father's feet, And gazing in his face,It said in low and trembling tones, And with a modest grace,'Dear God, the name thou gavest me, Alas, I have forgot.'The Father kindly looked Him down, And said, 'Forget-me-not.' "
Mamma's eyes were closed when Phyllis finished, and the children tiptoed softly out of the room.
THE FOOLISH PANSY
A dainty little pansy Stood on one toe,Stretched up her pretty head, And wanted to knowWhy she was tethered fast, Just to one spot,While zephyrs could wander Where she could not."O gentle Queen of Fairies," I heard her softly say,"Please cut the ties that bind me, And bid me fly away."I know I'm far too pretty So hidden here to lie;To look abroad and see the world, I'm sure I'd like to try.""O foolish little pansy, Your choice you're sure to rue;To soar aloft, on restless wing, Is not for such as you."But the pretty pansy pouted, And not a smile was seen,While sadly leaned above her The gentle Fairy Queen.So, weary of her sulking, At length she waved her wand;And pansy flew away, away, She thought to Fairy-land.The zephyrs changed to breezes, Then fast and faster blew,And soon beside the river The pretty pansy threw.Then leaning o'er the water, She started back in fright;For, in that faithful mirror, She saw a fearful sight.Her truant ways and temper Had seamed her forehead o'erWith wrinkles and with bruises,– Her beauty was no more.Too late she saw her error, Too late she sighed full sore;She fainted there, and perished Upon that pebbly shore.Thus ends my little story; For, down beneath the wave,This foolish little pansy Soon found a lonely grave.Shall I not take this lesson, And feel content to restWhere God in love has placed me, Assured his choice is best?
–Jenny Wallis.
THE PANSY
Out in the garden, wee Elsie Was gathering flowers for me;"Oh, mamma," she cried, "hurry, hurry, Here's something I want you to see!"I went to the window. Before her A velvet-winged butterfly flew,And the pansies themselves were no brighter Than this beautiful creature, in hue."Oh, isn't it pretty?" cried Elsie, With eager and wondering eyes,As she watched it soar lazily upward Against the soft blue of the skies."I know what it is, don't you, mamma?"– Oh, the wisdom of these little thingsWhen the soul of a poet is in them– "It's a pansy–a pansy with wings!"
–Eben E. Rexford.
THE PANSY'S STORY
A modest floweret bloomed in the glade. So shy was she that she crept into the shadow of a tall leaf. Then she spread her blossoms.
Soon there crept out from the shadows of the tall leaf an exquisite, delicate perfume. Soon there crept under the tall leaf a little singing bird, who spied the purple and gold of the floweret's blossoms. When he flew out he sang of her sweetness to all the world.
At last, one day, an angel flew down to earth with a mission of love. Now the long white wings of the angel swept close to earth. They brushed aside a tall leaf. The angel discovered the blossoms of purple and gold. She inhaled the exquisite, delicate perfume.
"Ah!" cried the angel. "How lovely you are! Too lovely to dwell alone in the shadows. You should be a flower in the gardens of the angels.
"But wait, I have thought of something even more beautiful for you. You shall be the angel's blossom, but you shall bloom in the land of man.
"Go, sweet pansy, bloom in every land. Bring to all people sweet thoughts of peace and love and faith."
Then the angel stooped and kissed the floweret, and lo, from each little blossom looked out a tiny angel face.
So it happened that the pansy came into our gardens to live. When you see the tiny faces in her blossoms will you remember the angel whose kiss was kindness and gentleness and love?
THE STORY OF THE FORGET-ME-NOT
One morning, in the golden days of the early world, an angel sat just outside the gates of Paradise, and wept.
"Why do you weep?" gently asked one who passed that way. "Surely the world is lovely, and Paradise is so near!"
"Alas!" said the angel, "I must wait long before I may enter Paradise."
"Why," said the other, "it seems but a step to the gates. Why must you wait?"
"Look," said the angel, pointing earthward. The other looked and saw a dainty blue-eyed maiden stooped over the grass by a brookside.
"Do you see those tiny blue flowers which she is planting?" whispered the angel. "They are as dainty as she is herself. They are blue as her own eyes. They have hearts of gold as true as her own true heart."
"Why, then, do you weep?" asked the other.
"Ah," said the angel, "I love the gentle maiden, and with her I would have entered Paradise. But, lo, when we came to the very gates we were not allowed to enter."
"Tell me more," said the other.
"A task was given to this earth maiden," said the angel. "In every corner of the world must she plant this tiny blue flower. I may not enter the gates of Paradise without her. Thus it is that I sit outside and weep."
"Nay, nay," said the other. "weep not. There is a better way than that."
Then he whispered in the angel's ear.
And the angel flew to earth where the maiden stooped over her dainty blue flowers. He came to assist her in her task.
Hand in hand the angel and the beautiful maiden wandered over the land. In every corner of the earth they planted the blue forget-me-nots.
Then one day, when the task was done, they sat together beside the stream and wove wreaths of forget-me-nots.
And with garlands of their own flowers about them, the angel gathered the beautiful maiden in his arms and carried her with him to the gates of Paradise.
The gates swung wide at their coming, and ever after the angel and the maiden whom he loved wandered mid fields of happiness in the land of Paradise.
ALL ABOUT THE PANSY OR HEARTSEASE
SUGGESTIONS FOR FIELD LESSONS
Belongs to violet family.
Blossoms throughout summer into late fall.
Stem–slender–nodding–single flower on stalk–low.
Leaves grow in cluster about the root and on stem–sometimes cut–often heart-shaped.
Five petals–five sepals–five stamens–one pistil–one-celled pod–lower petal has a little spur–beautifully colored in shades and mixtures of yellow, violet, and purple.
ALL ABOUT THE FORGET-ME-NOT
SUGGESTIONS FOR FIELD LESSONS
Belongs to borage family.
Blossoms throughout the summer.
Found along the banks of streams and in low, marshy places.
Stems–slender, branching, somewhat rough when rubbed upward.
Flowers–light blue, small, on a one-sided raceme, coiled up at the tip and unfolding as the flowers open–calyx five-lobed–corolla is round and flat, or salver shaped–stamens five–there is a white species of the flower.
Leaves–small and pointed–broader at the base–alternate.
THE WILD ROSE
THE WILD ROSE
BANKS OF ROSES
On the last day of June, Phyllis and her best doll went for a walk. It was a delightful day to walk. The sunshine was not too hot, nor the wind too strong.
Phyllis and her doll wandered a long way. At last they found themselves on a country road. On one side of the road was a ditch. Beyond the ditch was a steep, high bank.
When Phyllis looked across to the high bank she gave a cry of delight. I am shocked to say that she dropped her very best doll in the grass, and forgot all about her for at least ten minutes!
Do you wonder why? That steep bank was just thick with rose-bushes. They were in full bloom, and looked so fresh and pink and sweet sitting on their rustling beds of green leaves! Is it any wonder that Phyllis wished to get to them as soon as possible?
She gave a wild leap across the ditch, and landed right in the midst of the wild roses.
"Oh!" cried Phyllis, the next instant. "Oh, you have hurt me! You are not so lovely, after all!"
The pinkest pink rose of them all tossed her head jauntily.
"We are only protecting ourselves," she said. "Mot
