ALBERT R. MANN 
 LIBRARY 
 
 AT 
 
 CORNELL UNIVERSITY 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 
 Isabel Zucker 
 class '26 
 

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The Vase of Flowers. 
 
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FLOWER PEOPLE. 
 
 A TOKEN OF FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 BY A LADY. 
 
 “ It is my faith that every flower 
 Enjoys the air it breathes.” 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 HARTFORD: 
 PUBLISHED BY H. T. WELLS. 
 1846. 
 
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 Entered according to Act of Congress, 
 
 In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of Connecticut. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 The Snow-Drops, - - 
 The Crocuses, - - - 
 The Violets, - - - 
 The Anemones, - - - 
 The Hyacinths, - - 
 The Tulips, - - - - 
 The Crown Imperial. 
 The Narcissus, • - - 
 
 The Iris,. 
 
 The May Flowers, - 
 May in the Garden, - 
 June—The Roses, - - 
 The Flowers of July, 
 
 August,. 
 
 Autumn, . 
 
 The Leaf,. 
 
 Index to Plants, - 
 
 5 
 
 19 
 
 33 
 
 51 
 
 63 
 
 71 
 
 79 
 
 85 
 
 91 
 
 99 
 
 127 
 
 143 
 
 157 
 
 175 
 
 191 
 
 209 
 
 226 
 
Snow-drop. Hyacinth. Crocus. Violet. Narcissus, 
 
THE SNOW-DROPS. 
 
 One beautiful spring morning, when a soft south 
 wind began to melt the snow and ice, a little blue¬ 
 eyed girl ran into her mother’s garden to look 
 for Snow-drops and Crocuses, for April had come, 
 and she knew it was time for her darling flowers to 
 peep above the snow. 
 
 Little Mary loved all the flowers, but she loved 
 Snow-drops best, for they came first, and their deli¬ 
 cate white bells and green leaves told beautiful 
 stories of spring and summer. Her little fingers 
 soon removed the snow from the bed where they 
 
6 
 
 grew, and she shouted for joy when she saw a 
 whole troop of the little white sisters lift up their 
 graceful heads and smile in the bright sunshine. 
 
 As Mary bent down, with her rosy cheek almost 
 touching the sweet flowers, she heard a fairy-like 
 little voice say —“ Thank you, pretty one, for 
 brushing away the cold snow and showing us this 
 beautiful light. We have been trying for many 
 days to lift it from our heads, but began to fear we 
 should die without seeing the sun. It is very 
 pleasant and warm, and I am sure your eyes were 
 made of the blue sky when the sun was shining 
 upon it. I have been humming to myself this 
 morning the song I should sing to the sun when 
 he would please to melt away the cold snow, but 
 I love you best, now, and if you care any thing 
 about us little Snow-drops, I will tell you our 
 whole history. 
 
7 
 
 “ Y° u i°°k very much surprised to hear me talk, 
 but I am so happy, and you look so gentle, that I 
 will go on, and when you hear how unhappy I have 
 been, I know you will always be my friend, and 
 will come every spring to clear away the snow that 
 covers us. 
 
 The Snow-drop suddenly stopped speaking; and 
 her beautiful head bowed lower than ever upon its 
 graceful stalk, and a sigh that burst from her, made 
 all her petals tremble. 
 
 When she spoke again, all her joy seemed to be 
 gone, and her voice was so mournful, that the tears 
 started into little Mary’s eyes. 
 
 “ My dear little girl,” began the flower again, 
 this is a fine garden, and you and your mamma 
 are very kind, for you never pluck us from the 
 bosom of our mother Earth, but let us live and die 
 together here. But ah ! if you could see the sunny 
 
8 
 
 valleys where our home is, you would not wonder 
 that we are unhappy here, under this stone wall. 
 
 “I was born far away across the water in a 
 country called France, where a very little snow 
 falls in the winter, which we can easily pierce the 
 first warm day in spring. We are not obliged to 
 struggle there with such heavy crusts as have 
 penned us up in this cold place. Yesterday 1 
 heard your little brother’s merry voice in the gar¬ 
 den, and thought he was surely coming to find us, 
 but presently a thundering sound over our heads 
 nearly stunned us all. Some of my sisters fainted, 
 and a large ball of snow that came rattling down, 
 broke the stem of one, and we are afraid she will 
 die. I was not able to think again till this morning, 
 such was my terror, but now I suppose it must 
 have been your little brother running over our snow- 
 house. When we heard you coming we were very 
 
9 
 
 much alarmed, but you do not look as if you ever 
 could forget even a flower that you had once loved. 
 
 “ In my own country they call us Pierce-the- 
 Snow, (Perce-neige.) Perhaps you will go to 
 France when you grow up, and if you go to 
 Valence, you must get up early in the morning 
 and walk out into the country on the southern side 
 of the town, and you will soon come to a green 
 knoll surrounded by trees. The clear livei Ga¬ 
 ronne washes three of its sides, and there, eaily in 
 the spring, you may see thousands of my brothers 
 and sisters hanging out their bells above the snow. 
 If you are not there in the spring, you will not see 
 them, but you can look at the sweet river and the 
 snow-capped mountains in the distance, and when 
 you return you will tell me how beautiful they 
 
 are. 
 
 “We w r ere a happy family that lived side by side, 
 
10 
 
 and we loved each other better than all the world 
 of Snow-drops together. If they had only brought 
 them with me I could be happy any where, but 
 the most beautiful spot m the world could not be 
 a happy one for me without them. 
 
 “ M y e Wer brother was taller than I, and when 
 I looked up at our father, the Sun, I always met 
 Ins kind eye. I used to tell him all about the but¬ 
 terflies that came to visit me after the snow had 
 melted away and all the stories the winds whis¬ 
 pered to me about flowers in other countries. But 
 the best of all was to tell him how dearly I loved 
 him, and to hear him say that he loved me too. 
 Sometimes the gentle breezes (for there are no 
 cold winds there, such as we feel here) would lock 
 our stems together—and sometimes we would 
 stand still and silent many hours, watching the 
 shining insects that sported round us, or gazing 
 
11 
 
 into the deep river, where the golden fishes glided 
 by in the day, and the moon and stars were re¬ 
 flected at night. 
 
 “ I wish I could hear how he bore the loss of 
 me. I was so rudely snatched away that T had not 
 time even to look back and nod farewell at him. I 
 was shut up in a tin box, and remember nothing 
 more, till one day, on reviving, I found myself in a 
 little earthen jar, riding over the earth in a flying 
 castle. No green thing was to be seen but a few 
 of my own leaves. There was nothing but the 
 blue sky above me and the waters on every side. 
 It was very desolate.” 
 
 After another long pause the little Snow-drop 
 continued her story. 
 
 “ A fine old castle stands close by the wood in 
 my native valley, where lived a little blue-eyed 
 girl like you, who loved Snow-drops very much ; 
 
12 
 
 but I love you best, for she used to tear us up by 
 handfuls and carry us into the house where we 
 could not see the sun or drink the dew, but stood 
 in glass vases many days, and there died for want 
 of food. 
 
 “ Pure cold water is not good for plants to drink, 
 nor can we live long when separated from our roots. 
 They suck up a great deal of nourishment from the 
 ground, and we starve to death if we are plucked. 
 I have lost many sisters in that way, but I hope 
 you will not separate any of us. 
 
 “ It is dreadful to be an exile. Perhaps you do 
 not know what that means. I will tell you, for I 
 hope your heart never will. It means to be far, 
 far away from home, with the great ocean rolling 
 between one and one’s native country. 
 
 “ I belong to the Lily family, and after I have 
 told you something about lilies, I will tell you who 
 
13 
 
 our enemies are, for we and all flowers have ene¬ 
 mies, though we never mean to do any harm. 
 
 “You may easily know one of the Lily family, 
 for we all have six petals, and six stamens, and 
 long, linear, lanceolate or lance-shaped leaves. 
 Mine are very shining ; I always have two which 
 spring up from the bulb. All Lilies have bulbs. 
 They are composed of scales laid over one an¬ 
 other, like tiles on the top of a house. They 
 are very thick and juicy and serve for food to the 
 young plant, and this food they draw up from the 
 earth through long fibres or roots which extend 
 far down into the ground. If you dig us up in the 
 fall of the year and separate these scales, and plant 
 each one singly, you will have a great many more 
 flowers, and the larger our number is, the happier 
 we shall be. When we have received all the nour¬ 
 ishment we need from the bulb, the scales dry 
 
14 
 
 up, having imparted all their life to our bells and 
 leaves. 
 
 “ A green and white sheath or spathe encloses 
 our bells when we are first born, but our stems 
 grow very tall, and if -you will count them, you 
 will see that we all have three large, white, con¬ 
 cave petals, tipped with green, and three inner 
 petals which are sometimes called nectaries ; but 
 our nectar is really contained in the thickest part 
 of our pistil, which you see is in the shape of a 
 club and surmounted by a tapering stigma. On the 
 end of each stamen is an anther, which is filled 
 with fine dust or pollen, and that falls upon the 
 stigma and goes through the pistil into the germ, 
 which is triangular or three-sided, and contains our 
 seeds. When the pollen reaches the germ the 
 seeds begin to grow. 
 
 “ Our petals are so white that they do not last 
 
15 
 
 long. They reflect the sun very powerfully, throw¬ 
 ing his heat in upon the germ, within which my 
 spirit dwells, and from which I burst every spring 
 with new vigor and joy. 
 
 “ Little girl, did you ever hear of people called 
 botanists ? If you know any of them, I wonder if 
 you dislike them as much as I do. One day last 
 spring your mamma walked into the garden with a 
 gentleman, and I heard her say to him, ‘ you are a 
 botanist, sir, and can tell me what to call these 
 flowers.’ He stooped down and broke off a dear 
 little sister of mine, and after looking at it a mo¬ 
 ment he said her name was Galanthus nivalis, and 
 that these are Greek and Latin words—gala means 
 milk, and an thus a flower—nivalis means snowy. 
 I did not think the name so pretty as either my 
 French or English one, and my heart ached when 
 I saw him pull off my poor sister’s petals, and 
 
16 
 
 throw them on the ground. He then said she was 
 of the class Hexandria, which means, six stamens, 
 and of the order Monogynia, which means one 
 pistil. I think he told your mamma these were 
 Greek words also. 
 
 “ I was very much hurt at his saying that none 
 of the Lilies were perfect flowers, because they had 
 no proper calyx. I could have told him we had a 
 spathe which answered all the purpose, but I found 
 he knew that. I thought it very foolish in him to 
 say we were not perfect flowers. I do not believe 
 lie could have made the spathe that so carefully en¬ 
 closes our bells till they are large and strong enough 
 to burst forth. He might at least have said we had 
 a spathe instead of a calyx. I never saw any one 
 approach our bed before who did not say something 
 kind about us. It is delightful to be loved, but as 
 
17 
 
 soon as lie told your mamma all these strange 
 names, he threw down the remnant of my little 
 sister, and I saw him a moment after break off a 
 bright yellow Crocus and pull that to pieces. 
 
 “ I see one at this moment trying to burst 
 through the snow. If you will lift that large flake 
 you will relieve my friend, and I do not doubt that 
 she will tell you her history if you wish to know it. 
 I will now enjoy with my companions the warm 
 rays of the brilliant sun, and think of my own 
 home where it is warmer still, and of my own 
 sweet river that sings to the flowers as it rushes 
 past them. 
 
 “ I hope my dear brother is there still, and think¬ 
 ing of me. Who knows that some one may not 
 chance to bring him here ? Then I should be too 
 
 happy, and I would call this my home, and I would 
 2 
 
18 
 
 say what I once heard a gentleman say to a lady, 
 as they walked down this path together: 
 
 ‘Where’er thou art is home to me, 
 
 And home without thee cannot be.’ ” 
 
 Again the gentle Snow-drop hung her head and 
 sighed. Mary listened long, hoping to hear her 
 speak again, and then ran to brush the snow away 
 from the Crocus. 
 
THE CROCUSES. 
 
 The Crocus thanked Mary with a golden look, 
 but did not speak till all her sisters were released 
 from their cold prison. They were clad in robes of 
 every color that crocuses wear—blue, purple, white 
 and yellow. Mary hardly knew which to think 
 most beautiful. Some of them were in full sum¬ 
 mer dress, others were still enclosed in a delicate 
 gauze-like spathe that binds together the flower- 
 buds and the long slender linear leaves, until the 
 warm kisses of the Sun win them to let fall their 
 veils and return his brilliant smiles. 
 
20 
 
 As soon as all were in full enjoyment of the 
 bright sunshine, the Crocus, dressed in Cloth of 
 Gold, again looked up to Mary and said—“ And 
 now sweet little one, I suppose you are impatient 
 to hear my story, for I heard what my dear friend 
 Snow-drop promised you. A beautiful poet who 
 sang a long song about Paradise—” 
 
 Little Mary wondered how flowers could know 
 any thing about poets. 
 
 “ I know what you arc thinking of,” said the 
 Crocus, “ but do you not know that poets and 
 flowers are born to know each other? I do not 
 understand why it is, but whenever a poet comes 
 near me, I always look up and speak to him, and 
 see myself shine back again from two dear little 
 looking-glasses, that are sometimes set in the 
 brightest sapphire, sometimes in lustrous jet, and 
 
21 
 
 sometimes like yours ; for you have these looking- 
 glasses too. 
 
 “ But I must not forget to tell you about the 
 poet of Paradise. Did you never hear him sing 
 
 i 
 
 about the first house that ever was made ? I am 
 sure there never has been one since half so beau¬ 
 tiful. I have heard my mother say, that when men 
 make houses now, they kill those tall trees, which 
 are much too large for us Crocuses ever to under¬ 
 stand, and cut them up, with a world of trouble ; 
 but God himself made that first bower. 
 
 The roof 
 
 Of thickest covert was inwoven shade, 
 
 Laurel and Myrtle, and what higher grew 
 Of firm and fragrant leaf;—on either side 
 Acanthus, and each odorous bushy shrub, 
 
 Fenced up the verdant wall; each beauteous flower, 
 
 Iris all hues, Roses and Jessamine, 
 
 Reared high their flourished heads between, and w'rought 
 Mosaic; under foot the Violet, 
 
 Crocus and Hyacinth, with rich ijday 
 Bordered the ground. 
 
22 
 
 “ I love to think that my first parents lived in 
 that sacred place where your mother Eve took care 
 of us, who loved every flower and every green leaf, 
 that 
 
 At her coming sprang, 
 
 And touched by her fair tendance, gladlier grew. 
 
 “ But I am very glad, too, that I live in your day. 
 Do you know that the bright ribbon that is plaited 
 round your dress, owes its saffron tint to one of my 
 family ? In ‘ Araby the blest’ they call me Zafa- 
 ran ; and I suppose that is the reason that the Moors 
 of Spain call me Asafaran and Safra, for they came 
 from Arabia ; and that the English call me Saffron, 
 for they found me in Asia, which is my native coun¬ 
 try. Some of my brothers and sisters, however, 
 have been found in Savoy, and that sweet little 
 cousin of mine who is dressed in white and purple, 
 and whom the French call ‘ Safron printanier,’ is a 
 native of Switzerland. She is always most merry 
 
 V- 
 
23 
 
 while the snow lasts, because it reminds her of her 
 happy home, and she fells us wonderful stories 
 about the mountains there, whose peaks are covered 
 with snow even in summer! She looks really un¬ 
 happy when the snow is all melted away, and dies 
 very young. Her whole family is called Versicolor, 
 which arose, I believe, from the variety of colors in 
 which her brothers and sisters clothe themselves. 
 I must tell you one thing more about them. The 
 mothers in Switzerland tie them about the necks of 
 their children, and then believe that nothing can 
 harm the little darlings. I do not know why they 
 think so, but I know that in very ancient times men 
 used to pray that Saffron might grow over their 
 graves to protect them. I do not know why they 
 should think so much of their bodies after their 
 souls had flown out of them, but perhaps they 
 thought, if sweet flowers grew upon the graves of 
 
24 
 
 their friends, men would tread tenderly over them, 
 and remember the beautiful souls their bodies once 
 contained.” 
 
 “ But God,” said Mary, “ with whom good souls go 
 to live, is sweeter than all the flowers in the world, 
 and more beautiful. I have a little hymn that says, 
 ‘ He that made the Rose is more beautiful than the 
 Rose. He is all lovely ; he is the delight of every 
 heart.’ ” 
 
 There was a long silence, for Mary and the Cro¬ 
 cuses quite forgot each other at that moment. 
 Mary thought how happy she should be to go 
 and live in Heaven, with him who made the Rose 
 and all the flowers, and the Crocus was lost in grati¬ 
 tude for the gift of life, that thrilled through her deli- 
 
 4 
 
 cate frame in the warm rays of that bright sunshine. 
 
 At last Mary said ; “ you have told me about the 
 
25 
 
 first name that you had, but why are you called 
 Crocus ?” 
 
 “My first name is the truest one,” the Crocus re¬ 
 plied, “ for your first father who gave it to me knew 
 best what all names meant. The Greeks called us 
 Crocus, because a beautiful young man of that 
 name was changed into a form just like ours—” 
 
 “ Changed into a flower ! how could that be ?” 
 said Mary. 
 
 “ Oh! I am sure I cannot tell you that; for I 
 do not know how my spirit finds in the dark earth 
 such delicate stuff as I am made of, or why my 
 father, the Sun, sends me such beautiful rays from 
 his great globe to be made into smiles of all colors. 
 
 “ I suppose the spirit of that young man, when 
 he had laid his human body in the grave, did the 
 same thing as my spirit does. Perhaps he wanted 
 his friends to see him, and as they could not see a 
 
26 
 
 spirit, you know, he wove such a robe as ours out 
 of the dew drops and sunshine, to be seen by. 
 
 “ I always wear a cloth of gold, and am distin¬ 
 guished by that name. I am one of those plants 
 whose duty it is to cure the sick, and so botanists 
 call me Officinalis. Those whose robes are white 
 and purple, are a little different from me, for if you 
 will observe my green leaves carefully, you will 
 see they are narrower. These are the folds of my 
 mantle. My robes are called petals.” 
 
 “ Why do you call them petals ?” said Mary. 
 
 “ It is the flower-language we learnt in Greece. 
 Petals mean spreaders. We spread our robes to 
 receive the sun’s rays which rebound from them 
 upon our anthers,—those three little yellow boxes 
 filled with dust that hang upon the ends of my 
 stamens. Our anthers are very precious, and are 
 therefore called the flower of the flower, for anther 
 
27 
 
 is the Greek word for flower. The yellow dust 
 they contain is called farina.” 
 
 “ How I wish all the flower-language was En¬ 
 glish,” said Mary, “ and then I could understand it 
 better.” The Crocus smiled and continued. 
 
 “ Each separate grain of that fine dust is like a 
 balloon full of light vapor, which floats on the in¬ 
 visible wings of the air, or is carried by insects to 
 the stigma which looks so much like the crest on 
 the head of that great cock who crows so loud in 
 the morning. Within the stigma it finds a drop of 
 moisture, and when the bafloon of air and that drop 
 of moisture meet, the balloon bursts, and their 
 spirits mingle together, and descending through the 
 long pistil into the dark bulb, make new life in my 
 seeds for another year.” 
 
 “ I do not like the bulb,” said Mary ; “ it is ugly, 
 and keeps in the ground where it should be.” 
 
28 
 
 
 “ Ah, my dear little girl, you must love with your 
 soul and not with your eyes. The most beautiful 
 things spring out of darkness and sadness. Don’t 
 you know that your own goodness often grows out 
 of the tears of sorrow, and out of tryings to be good, 
 which are not very pleasant at the time ? 
 
 “ My seeds repose quietly in the bulb till the 
 spirit of life comes to quicken them, and then they 
 begin to struggle upward; but it is not till after 
 these gay robes wither and droop, that the germ 
 rises into the light and air to ripen its seeds in the 
 sun. We are not then so beautiful to the eye of 
 man, but our destiny is fulfilled, and we are happy 
 in the consciousness of holding in our bosoms the 
 splendors of another year. 
 
 “ My cousin Nudiflora does not put on her robes 
 till autumn. She sa}^ the many-colored mantles 
 of the forest trees then shed their glorious hues over 
 
the country, a little while before they fall to the 
 ground, but the clear bright clays soon change into 
 cold, and chilly, and cloudy ones, and she willingly 
 drops again into the bosom of our mother Earth, to 
 escape the winter storms, and await the call of our 
 father Sun when spring returns. You may now 
 see her germ bursting forth alone to ripen for her 
 autumnal festival. 
 
 “ It is of her that another beautiful poet once 
 said, 
 
 And see—I’ve brought a little flower 
 No lingerer it of summer’s train— 
 
 Like Vesper star at Eve’s dim hour 
 It comes, to deck pale Autumn’s bower 
 And leaf-strown plain. 
 
 “ I have many other beautiful cousins. There is 
 the Pale Starry Crocus, whose tiny yellow gar¬ 
 ments you see striped with black. That is the 
 Cloth of Silver Crocus, with three stripes on 
 each petal. Here is one just bursting from the 
 

 30 
 
 spathe, that lias on the inner folds of her robe a 
 deeper shade, which gives her the appearance of 
 holding a yellow cup within her corolla. That one 
 dressed in rich purple is very much celebrated in 
 the world ; for it is her stigmas and part of her 
 stamens, that when carefully plucked and dried, 
 impart a beautiful color to every thing they touch. 
 Her family has been so much cultivated and edu¬ 
 cated in Walden, in England, that the place is 
 now called Saffron-Walden ; her own name is 
 Sativus. 
 
 “We are related to a very beautiful family of 
 flowers called Lilies, some of which are very tall 
 and splendid. But all Lilies are amiable, and the 
 tallest and fairest do not forget to notice their little 
 cousins who live near the ground. 
 
 “ There are two ways of making us grow, if you 
 wish to have a large and gay troop of us. You can 
 
31 
 
 divide and transplant our bulbs, for each portion has, 
 like a seed, a separate life, or you may plant our 
 seeds in a shady place where there is plenty of 
 fresh air, and sift the soil very carefully over us in 
 the autumn of the first and second year. In the 
 spring of the third year we will reward your care 
 by looking as beautiful as we can.” 
 
 At that moment Mary’s little brother threw a 
 snow-ball over the garden fence, which struck the 
 stem of the Crocus dressed in Cloth of Gold, and 
 snapped it short off. 
 
 Mary screamed when she saw the sweet little 
 story-teller lying upon the ground, and the cruel 
 snow-ball scattered broken amongst all her com¬ 
 panions. They were too much frightened to speak 
 again, and at last she took up the pretty broken 
 flower to carry it to her brother, and make him 
 promise never to throw any more snow-balls into 
 
32 
 
 the garden; for Charles was a good little boy, though 
 he did love to throw snow-balls and run over the 
 crust. He never meant to do any harm, but he was 
 very thoughtless, and thoughtless people often do a 
 great deal of mischief. I think Charley will be 
 more careful in future, for he will be sorry to have 
 all the Flower-people dislike him. 
 
THE VIOLETS. 
 
 Every day, little Mary visited the Snow-drops 
 and Crocuses, whose beauty spoke to her heart, 
 even when she heard no sound of their sweet voices. 
 
 The glow of life soon melted the snow from 
 around the Crocuses ; and Mary longed for the time 
 when it should all disappear,, that she might run 
 down to the brook where the wild flowers grew. 
 
 One morning, she was waked early by the sound 
 of rushing waters. She ran to the window, which 
 her mother had already opened to let in the warm 
 sweet air of the spring morning. 
 
34 
 
 Earth’s snowy mantle had vanished. The 
 weather had been quite mild for a few days, and 
 a warm rain had fallen in the night, and swept it 
 all away. Mary could no longer see where the 
 pretty brook tumbled merrily over the rocks in 
 summer time, singing as it went. She could not 
 even see the meadow through which it used to run. 
 In the place of it, stood a large lake studded with 
 trees. The river that had its source in the moun¬ 
 tain, had been so swollen by the rain and melted 
 snows, that it had overflowed its banks, and cov¬ 
 ered all the fields in the valley. The tall, graceful 
 elms could alone be seen above the waters. Fences, 
 bridges, hedges and shrubbery had all disappeared. 
 
 Yesterday, the brook and the river were chained 
 
 last by the ice. Yesterday, every thing in the coun- 
 
 ' / 
 
 try was cold and dead, except the Snow-drops, Cro¬ 
 cuses, and the song of the South-wind in the pines. 
 
35 
 
 But the Spirit of the Wind had breathed upon their 
 fetters till they had burst, and to-day all was life 
 and music. The rushing waters spoke from every 
 hill, as they poured into the valley, and swept wildly 
 through the meadow-land. 
 
 They told Mary these were the same fields she 
 saw covered with snow the day before, and that 
 when they were gone the grass would look green 
 and the flowers bloom brilliantly. They told her 
 how grateful they were to the Sun and the South- 
 wind, for breaking their chains. They told of their 
 home—the great ocean to which they were fast rush¬ 
 ing, and how the Sun would draw them up into the 
 clouds again, and let them fall upon the meadows in 
 soft summer showers. They promised to come 
 when the grass should be dry and parched, and the 
 flowers thirsting for refreshment. And they told 
 Mary not to be frightened, if they should come with 
 
36 
 
 » 
 
 loud thunder and bright lightning, for these would 
 cool the hot air and open its doors for fresh breezes. 
 
 For many days nothing was to be heard but the 
 merry song of the waters ; but one pleasant after¬ 
 noon Mary went out with her mother, and they 
 opened the little gate at the bottom of the garden 
 and walked into the meadow. 
 
 The river had returned to its bed. The brook 
 was now tumbling over the rocks, and gliding 
 through the grass, which already looked green, and 
 the buds of the vines were just bursting into leaves. 
 None of the forest trees had put on their mantles, 
 except the pale green willows,—their long pendent 
 branches kissed the sweet stream as it now glided 
 gently along. 
 
 On every side, the blue Violets were peeping 
 through the grass, and troops of Anemones had 
 
37 
 
 climbed every hillock which the fresh breezes 
 visited. 
 
 Mary shouted for joy. “ Oh here they are, all 
 blooming ready for me,” cried the little girl. 
 “ Mother, do you think they will tell me a story ?” 
 and she threw herself upon the ground to catch the 
 first accents of the flower-speech. 
 
 A little blue-eyed Violet looked up into Mary’s 
 eyes, and thought two large and beautiful Violets 
 were looking down into hers. She was half hidden 
 in the brown grass of the former year, but seemed 
 to be happy in that lowly place, and not to envy her 
 gay companions, the Anemones, who were dancing 
 in the soft wind, with their, pink and white gar¬ 
 ments on. 
 
 “ I can tell you nothing,” said the modest Violet, 
 in a low sweet tone, “ but what happens down here 
 in the grass. It was a long time since [ had seen 
 
38 
 
 the blue sky and the brook, or my father the Sun, bu* 
 his warm beams penetrated, many days ago, to my 
 dark apartment, and waked me from the long winter 
 night. When the snow melted, and the warm rain 
 reached my roots, I breakfasted upon the sweet 
 waters, and prepared to dress myself for this happy 
 day. I am glad to see the new blades of grass 
 begin to shoot up, for these stiff brown ones of last 
 year are not so fragrant or so polite as the tender 
 green ones which yield readily to the pressure of 
 my leaves. I only wish to have room to look up at 
 the Sun and the blue sky. My pale little sister, who 
 is under that leaf by your hand, cannot even do that, 
 and yet she says she is happy, it feels so good to be 
 alive. I hardly think I should be happy if I were 
 there, and now you have taken away the leaf, I 
 suspect she will never be willing to live under it 
 again 
 
39 
 
 “ How loving you look, dear little girl! I should 
 like to tell you every thing in my heart if you would 
 like to hear it. The butterflies and the bees often 
 come to see me, and I like them very much, but 
 they have a great deal to say about their flights and 
 their honey, and never have time to listen to any 
 thing I have to tell. I love to talk to you while 
 your soul is looking into mine, and if I could talk 
 in such language as your eyes speak to me, how 
 much I could tell you of the sweet Spring and the 
 warm Sun, and the soft winds that have called me 
 out of the bosom of the dark Earth. 
 
 “ I believe you know some of my cousins, for the 
 bees have told me that there are a great many 
 Pansies in your mother’s garden. They are more 
 beautiful than I am, and have many colored gar¬ 
 ments on, and I believe they like to live in that 
 fine place, but I had rather stay here in the grass 
 
40 
 
 with the Anemones ; and the bees say they had 
 rather come here to sip honey from my lips, for 
 they are often driven from the-garden. Why are 
 they driven from the garden ?” 
 
 “ Because they sting,” said little Mary. 
 
 “Do they,” said the Violet, “ and what is that?” 
 
 “ They hurt people,” said Mary. 
 
 “ They never hurt me,” said the Violet. “ Per¬ 
 haps they are obliged to sting, if people hurt them ; 
 for they are so small that they would easily be killed 
 if they did not defend themselves. They have a 
 great deal of work to do, and if they hurt any one, 
 I think it must be because they wish to finish it.” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Mary, “ God gave them their sting 
 to defend themselves, and they never use it for any 
 other purpose. The point is so very fine, that we 
 cannot see the end of it unless it is put under a glass, 
 which makes things look hundreds of times larger 
 
41 
 
 than they really are. The bees never hurt me, for 
 I do not touch them.” 
 
 “ If any one should hurt me,” said the "V lolet, I 
 could not defend myself,—but I am not of much 
 consequence.” 
 
 Mary thought it would be very cruel to hurt such 
 a beautiful, sweet creature, but before she could an¬ 
 swer, the Violet seemed to have forgotten that theie 
 was any danger in the world, and said ; “ The hum¬ 
 ming-birds build their nests in that wild rose-bush, 
 and I love to hear the song of the brook among the 
 
 •w 
 
 pebbles. 
 
 “ Has my cousin Heart’s Ease bloomed yet ? I 
 should rather know her than any of the Pansies. I 
 think if she knew what a beautiful prospect I have 
 from the side of this sloping hill, she would wish 
 herself here. She has sisters in all the countries 
 in the world, and must know a great many stories. 
 
42 
 
 I once heard your mamma talking of a cold coun 
 tiy, far away from here, called Siberia, where many 
 unhappy people are sent from their pleasant homes 
 by a cruel king, who punishes' them for being rich 
 and good. She told a story of a noble and cour¬ 
 ageous daughter, who walked more than a thousand 
 miles in that cold country, to ask the king to let her 
 father return to his happy home. It was a very 
 beautiful story, and when she said that the father of 
 that good daughter would often twine my cousin 
 Heart’s Ease into the garlands he wove for his 
 daughter s brow, I wished I could have been there 
 too, to speak to him of the valleys of his native land, 
 where Violets grow. 
 
 “ How many beautiful cousins I have ! do you 
 wish to hear about them all ? I have more than 
 twenty in America. In Greece we are named Ion. 
 They have a story there that a beautiful lady was 
 
43 
 
 changed into a cow by one of her enemies, and 
 we were named from her, because we sustained her 
 life in that misfortune. 
 
 “ I have cousins too who grow in the palm-groves 
 of Africa. The children of that land are not so 
 happy as you are, but they love flowers, and wear 
 us in garlands round their heads, and when they 
 give us to each other they mean to say, 1 1 shall 
 love you alwaysfor we are the emblems of con¬ 
 stant affection. We grow in Asia, too, in the Holy 
 Land where Abraham lived. In Paradise we 
 decked the very bower of Eve, your first mother, 
 as Crocus has told you. 
 
 “My cousin Hesperus, who lives in England, 
 keeps all her sweet fragrance to herself in the day, 
 but at evening she sheds it upon the dewy air, and 
 the nightingales come and perch upon the bushes 
 near her, for they love sweet odors—and they thank 
 
44 
 
 her with such beautiful songs that all the flowers 
 wake to listen. Little girl, were you ever waked 
 at night by sweet music ? It is most enchanting 
 then, when all other sounds are stilled, and the 
 bright stars, or the soft moon, are shedding their 
 tender light. When the sun shines, he is so bril¬ 
 liant and glorious that all my soul is gazing upon 
 him ; but at night I can listen, and when the sky is 
 full of music, I think of the happy days I have spent 
 with the bees, and the butterflies, and the Anemones. 
 I think of the first days of spring, when we all burst 
 into life and joy, and of the gay summer months 
 when the Roses dress themselves in their splendid 
 garments. I hope I shall live to see the Roses. Do 
 not pluck me, little girl. T will tell you more about 
 myself if you will not pluck me. 
 
 “ I see you are looking at the green leaves of 
 my mantle. They are spoon-shaped to catch the 
 
45 
 
 falling drops of rain or dew. Violets first grew 
 upon highlands or mountains where no brooks wa¬ 
 tered their roots, and we are provided with these to 
 catch moisture from the air. When we live in the 
 lowlands, the form of our leaves is changed, as we 
 do not need so much moisture from the atmosphere. 
 
 “ I hope you will never forget me, for it makes 
 Violets as well as little girls very unhappy, to be 
 loved and then forgotten. Wherever you meet 
 with us in all the world, you may know us by our 
 five-leaved calyx, by these five petals, and the five 
 anthers which cling round the pistil. Botanists call 
 us of the class Pentandria, on account of our five sta¬ 
 mens. Roses have five petals, too, but they are all 
 of the same shape, while one of mine turns back¬ 
 ward. 
 
 “ Many flowers which have five petals and sta¬ 
 mens are poisonous, but Violets can do no harm in 
 
46 
 
 the world. From the roots of my cousin Odorata, 
 so named because she smells so sweet, a kind medi¬ 
 cine is made, which will cure cruel pains.” 
 
 Mary thought she should love to take medicine 
 made of violets, for it must taste good ; but she 
 learned afterwards that the bitterest doses are some¬ 
 times made from the roots of the sweetest smelling 
 flowers. She was glad God had made them so 
 beautiful, because she could think of their beauty 
 when she was taking the medicine her mother gave 
 her, and forget how bitterly it tasted. 
 
 “ Grandiflora,” the little flower continued, “ is the 
 most lovely of all violets ; she dresses in cream- 
 colored and purple robes. Tricolor wears three 
 bright colors in spring, but before summer is gone, 
 they fade to the palest shades. 
 
 “ If you will come again next June, you will see, 
 behind that rock which juts into the brook at the 
 
47 
 
 foot of that tall hawthorn, my water-cousin Hotto- 
 nia. One who loves her has said, ‘ Her long, white, 
 hair-like roots strike deep into the bed of the stream, 
 her blue and white flowers rise upon their hollow 
 stems, just above the surface of the water; and 
 beneath, in the shade of her tufted leaves, the little 
 Periwinkle moors his pretty shell.’ 
 
 “ My own name,” said the little Violet, after a 
 moment’s pause, is Viola Velutina. I think yours 
 must be Viola Celestina.” 
 
 At that moment the sun sunk behind the hill, 
 and the lowly flower drooped her head and ceased 
 speaking ; but her fragrant words lingered on the 
 air, and it was long before Mary turned from her 
 celestial loveliness to the gay Anemones that were 
 nodding their heads at her. 
 
 If Mary had been asked at that moment what 
 flower she should like to be, she would surely have 
 
43 
 
 said a Violet, so tenderly did Velutina’s modest 
 beauty, and sweet fragrance, and heavenly color, 
 speak to her heart. She thought neither Grandi- 
 flora’s cream-colored and purple garments, nor the 
 three bright colors of Tricolor, nor the many tinted 
 Pansies of the garden, could be so lovely as the 
 delicate blue of Velutina’s robes,—so like the happy 
 sky which the Violet herself could not love better 
 than Mary did. 
 
 But the bright blue Day was fast turning pale, at 
 the approach of the dark-robed Night; the flowers 
 were folding their robes for slumber, and as Mary 
 turned homeward, her mother said ; “ I hope my 
 daughter will be like that modest flower who never 
 thinks of herself, but remembers all the goodness of 
 others. Then every one will love my daughter as 
 well as she loves the blue Violets.” 
 
49 
 
 All night Mary dreamed that she was in the 
 meadow, listening to 
 
 “ Violets dim, 
 
 But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes, 
 
 Or Cytherea’s breath.” 
 
 4 
 

Columbine. Autumnal Crocus. Anemone. Wild Geranium 
 
THE ANEMONES. 
 
 Before the sun had climbed the wooded hill that 
 bounded the valley, Mary was brushing the dew 
 from the grass in the meadow. The wind had 
 already waked some of the Anemones ; others still 
 hung their beautiful heads, for fear the dew-drops 
 should steal into their bosoms and chill the life that 
 warmed them. Every leaf and blade of grass was 
 weighed down by the beneficent moisture. These 
 were grateful for the refreshment, and wondered 
 how the flowers could turn away from it. 
 
 Suddenly a flood of light poured over the valley ; 
 
52 
 
 every dew-drop became a diamond; the windings 
 of the river twinkled from between the trees on its 
 banks, and a chorus of birds burst forth in a joyous 
 welcome to the brightest of all earth’s beauties. At 
 this moment a light wind swept over the landscape, 
 and every pink and white Anemone expanded 
 to welcome it. So joyously did they wave in 
 the gay breeze, that Mary clapped her hands 
 and joined in the dance. It seemed as if a thou¬ 
 sand rose-flakes were suddenly scattered over the 
 grass. 
 
 At first they did not see her, for their first look, 
 like their last, is always at their father, the Sun. 
 All flowers love the Sun; but some of his daugh¬ 
 ters so love the radiance of his countenance, that 
 they never turn their gaze away from it. They fol¬ 
 low his course through the heavens, as if they wished 
 to behold no object of lesser glory. If a dark cloud 
 
53 
 
 veils his face from them, they sorrowfully droop 
 their heads, as if the light he had left upon other 
 objects were not worth looking at. 
 
 But now Mary intercepted these bright rays, 
 which the Sun was pouring upon the Anemones. 
 Perhaps they would have drooped their heads in 
 sorrow, if her sw^eet face, sparkling with joy, had 
 not shone upon them like a little sun. 
 
 And soon a tiny voice came upon the breeze : 
 “ Oh! do not destroy our happiness,” said the flower, 
 “ we love to look at the Sun during all the short 
 days of our lives. I see clouds in the distant sky, 
 so that I know our day will not be a long one ; 
 for when it rains we must fold our petals over the 
 germ where our life dw r ells, or its vitality will be 
 destroyed.” 
 
 Mary stepped aside, that the Anemones might 
 enjoy the warmth and brilliancy of the parent rays. 
 
54 
 
 The happy flower smiled again. “ I heard Viola 
 telling you her name yesterday,” she said; “I too 
 was named in that land where men loved every thing 
 beautiful. The people were beautiful themselves, 
 as I have heard my mother say ; and the hills on 
 which Anemones used to enjoy the cool breezes of 
 spring, looked down upon groves that were filled 
 with forms still more lovely and glorious than their 
 own. It was a great while ago. Then they were 
 happy, and no rude sounds of war or discord ever 
 came into that holy land.* When the soldier came 
 to its borders, he would lay down his sword, and his 
 soul was filled with high and noble thoughts, in¬ 
 spired by the beautiful forms that peopled every 
 valley and crowned every hill. Now it is all de¬ 
 spoiled. Wicked men have been there, and stained 
 the grass with blood, and trodden down the flowers, 
 
 * Elis. 
 
55 
 
 and broken the beautiful statues and temples that 
 those happy men made. 
 
 “ They call us Anemones, because we unfold our 
 garments to the wind. I see the breeze playing 
 with your hair and with the roses in your cheeks, 
 and I know you love it too. It makes the blood 
 bound through your veins, as it makes the living sap 
 flow through mine. 
 
 “ I wear these pink and white garments, because 
 they are the favorite colors of the Sun. He keeps 
 our anthers warm, which contain that precious dust 
 of which you have heard flowers speak. 
 
 “ Some of my cousins have umbelled flower 
 stalks, so that they are never alone, even if their 
 roots are far separated from others. They are very 
 happy families, for they live and die together. Per¬ 
 haps you do not know what I mean by umbelled 
 flower stalks. They are exactly like the sticks of 
 
56 
 
 your mamma’s parasol, and on the end of each hangs 
 a flower. I think such a parasol would be much 
 prettier than hers, and it would not keep off the sun 
 so much. Perhaps if she sees my beautiful cousin 
 Narcissiflora, she will take her for a pattern. 
 
 Mary laughed, and wondered what the flower 
 thought her mamma carried a parasol for, if it weie 
 not to keep off the sun but the Anemone loved 
 the sun’s warmth so much that it never thought an)' 
 
 one could think he felt too hot. 
 
 “ Lancifolia, Alpina, and several other cousins of 
 mine, live alone as I do. But it is not pleasant to 
 be solitary. Once I lived entirely alone in this 
 meadow; but I did not enjoy the sun or the wind 
 half as much as I do now when I am surrounded by 
 my children. These are all my children, covering 
 the meadow as far as you can see,—for my roots 
 spread under the ground like net-work. 
 
57 
 
 Mary wondered that the Anemone looked so 
 young, when she had so many children. She cer¬ 
 tainly looked no older than the rest of them. The 
 pretty flower blushed a still deeper pink, and was 
 quite pleased that Mary thought she still looked so 
 young and beautiful, for she loved the admiration 
 even of the winds. “ I know what your thoughts 
 are, little lady,” she said. “ The reason I look so 
 young is, that every year I put on new garments, 
 and flowers never feel old, as people do. But I 
 have had some sorrows,” she added with a sigh, 
 “ for the cows sometimes trample upon my dear 
 children. I see them all again every spring, to be 
 sure, but it grieves me when their beautiful sum¬ 
 mer lives are cut short. 
 
 “ I know that I ought not to complain, for I think 
 I am much happier than the race of man. In that 
 little cottage, on the edge of the meadow, there lives 
 
58 
 
 a poor old woman, who was as young and happy 
 as you are, when I first came to this meadow. The 
 cottage is old and ruinous now, like herself. She 
 used to dance over the grass as gaily as you do, 
 and always came to see me every morning, and was 
 as happy as I was when my children first grew up 
 around me. And then beautiful children grew up 
 around her, but they died, one by one, and were laid 
 in the ground under yonder hill, where you see those 
 little mounds. The poor old lady was then left 
 quite alone, for her husband died too, and now she 
 looks very sad when she walks in the meadow in 
 the spring. Sometimes I hear her wishing that her 
 children would come back, every year, as mine do. 
 Then she looks up to the sky and seems to be 
 talking to them, as if they were there. When she 
 comes, we all dance as gaily as we can, to please 
 
59 
 
 her, and sometimes she smiles, but I often think it 
 only makes her more unhappy to see us.” 
 
 Mary told the Anemone that she knew that poor 
 old lady very well, and that her children were really 
 up in the sky, where they were in a more beautiful 
 world than this—and that sorrowing mother knew 
 it, and was very willing that they should be there 
 with God, but she was tired of staying here with¬ 
 out them, and wanted to go too. 
 
 Is there a better wind there,” said the Anemone, 
 
 and more sun ? and does it shine upon a prettier 
 river ?” 
 
 “ • y es >” said little Mary, “ every thing is 
 
 better there, and God is there, who made every 
 thing- the wind and the sun and the rivers—Oh ! a 
 great many, many suns, and that is where all good 
 spirits go and are happy.” 
 
 I hope I shall go too,” said the Anemone,—but 
 
60 
 
 the next moment the flower seemed to forget that 
 
 * 
 
 there was any happier w r orld than this, for she be¬ 
 gan to dance and toss her pretty head about again. 
 
 “ My other name,” she said, after a moment’s 
 pause, “ is Nemorosa. I am so called because I 
 sometimes grow in woods and shady places. Most 
 Anemones love to grow on the top of a hill, where 
 they can feel all the winds that blow. When I am 
 not in flower, you may know me by my leaves. 
 They are in the form of a wedge, you see, and 
 notched, and three always grow together. Ane¬ 
 mones have many fancies about their mantles. 
 Thalictroides—I can hardly pronounce such a long 
 word—has smooth, roundish, heart-shaped leaves, 
 like Meadow Rue, from whom she is named. I 
 should like this' name better than that long Latin 
 one. I wish flowers could name themselves. But 
 it is very pretty, and grows on an umbelled flower- 
 
61 
 
 stalk. Lancifolia’s leaves are lance-shaped, and 
 scalloped on the edge. Narcissiflora’s are palmate, 
 something like the shape of your little hand. Alpi- 
 na’s are winged, and Virginiana’s are very much like 
 mine. I have a cousin Caroliniana, who lives in 
 warmer countries than this ;—sometimes she has 
 twenty petals ! Sylvestris is often called a Snow¬ 
 drop, her flowers are so white and drooping. Some¬ 
 times there are three, sometimes five, leaflets on one 
 of her stalks. 
 
 “ Poppies are relations of mine. You often see 
 them growing in your mamma’s garden, I suppose. 
 They were named from an ancient word, papa, 
 meaning pap, because their juice used to be given 
 to children to get them to sleep. It must have been 
 very dangerous, for the juice of Poppies makes a 
 very strong poison. Poisons were made to cure 
 very bad pains, and you must always remember 
 
62 
 
 that medicines are your friends, dear little girl, but 
 never trifle with them.” 
 
 It was God who made them, thought Mary. 
 
 “ My cousins Hortensia and Coronaria love to 
 grow in garden borders. I am sure I could not 
 breathe there. They do not know what it is to live 
 in such a pleasant place as this.” 
 
 The Anemone had never talked so long before. 
 She was quite tired, and her voice grew fainter and 
 fainter. She always stopped dancing when she 
 talked, and standing still seemed to fatigue her very 
 much. With a sweet smile and kindly nod she 
 seemed to bid farewell to Mary, as if she did not care 
 for her society any longer, for Anemones are like 
 some people, who are blown about by every wind, 
 and always think the last breeze the best. So Mary, 
 with her little brother, tripped over the meadow to 
 hear some other flower-story. 
 
THE HYACINTHS 
 
 Many flowers of the garden had now spread their 
 petals to the sun. The Crown Imperial proudly 
 
 towered above them all, hanging out her dark yel¬ 
 low bells, each holding its mysterious and immova¬ 
 ble gem. The Narcissus and Persian Iris varied 
 the long ranks of gay Tulips, which, like soldiers 
 arrayed for battle, dazzled the sight on every side. 
 But it rested with most pleasure upon a troop of Hy¬ 
 acinths, whose deeper dyes were mellowed to the 
 eye by the pale green leaves which shot up around 
 them, and together with the more delicate hues there 
 
J 
 
 64 
 
 displayed, reminded one of all the loveliest objects 
 in nature. Every shade of blue, from the pale tint 
 of the summer sky, to the deep blue of the deep 
 blue sea ; all purples, from the faintest streak upon 
 Elysian skies, 
 
 “Ne’er deepening into night,” 
 
 to the richest Tyrian dye of the eastern despot’s 
 robe ; the softest flush of pink that arrests the short 
 twilight of a tropical evening, and the whole alpha¬ 
 bet of the spirit language of the Rose ; the golden 
 glory of the evening sun, and the last streak of the 
 pale yellow day retreating over the mountain tops— 
 spoke from that little patch of ground. 
 
 One day a pink Hyacinth called Mary with her 
 sweet odors to come and hear her story, for flowers, 
 like all other sentient beings, love to talk of them¬ 
 selves to those who love them. Ever since the 
 Snow-drop had talked to the little girl, all the 
 
(55 
 
 daughters of Spring had called her with their fra¬ 
 grance, and their bright looks, to hear their little 
 histories. Even before they- had burst from the 
 giound, they must have heard the Snow-drop talk¬ 
 ing to the daughter of man, for as soon as they 
 appeared above it, they seemed to seek with eager 
 glances the eyes and the heart that loved them. 
 
 “ You must surely know me,” said the Hyacinth, 
 “ f° r I was once of the race of man. My spirit 
 then dwelt in a mortal form, beloved by Apollo, a 
 deity of that far-famed Grecian land of which you 
 have already heard so much. Let me tell you how 
 I came to be a flower. 
 
 “ Zephyr, as well as Apollo, loved the youth ITya- 
 cinthus; but Apollo dwelt in the sun, from which 
 he brought the warm rays that quicken our spirits 
 into this joyous life, and Zephyr is not so great a 
 favorite with me as he is with the Anenomes ;_this 
 
66 
 
 made him angry, and one day when I was sporting 
 with Apollo, Zephyr blew a quoit against my head 
 and killed my human form. But out of the prin¬ 
 ciple of life, which dwelt in my blood, Apollo made 
 a flower. I know not whether it is that the gar¬ 
 ments in which he arrays us are so beautiful to the 
 eye, or that a mysterious sympathy with man links 
 our souls together; but in some lands, men have 
 been willing to give nearly all their earthly posses¬ 
 sions for one of my race. 
 
 “ I dare say that you think this is the first time I 
 ever saw the sun ; but indeed I have visited many 
 lands, and been sold more than once, for many 
 thousands of dollars. I was born on the shores of 
 the Mediterranean sea, on the very spot where 
 young Hyacinthus died. A merchant carried me 
 to Holland, and placed me in a large garden, where 
 I never heard the sweet plashing of any waters, or 
 
G7 
 
 saw the sun rise or set behind any hills. It is true 
 that many other flowers lived in the garden, and we 
 were a gay company, and no one was more care¬ 
 fully attended to than myself. I was placed in a 
 beautiful vase, and sold to a princess, who kept me 
 in a lovely bower that stood by a little lake, where 
 I could see the sky reflected in the water every 
 day, but it was not so beautiful as my own Medi¬ 
 terranean. Many people offered large sums of 
 money for me, but the princess would not part with 
 me. I was so afraid that I should be carried back 
 into the dry garden again, that I tried to look more 
 beautiful to her eye every spring. I saw she soon 
 grew tired of every thing she possessed, and that 
 her dresses were often changed for new ones, 
 though it seemed to me they were no less beautiful 
 and becoming than at first. I feared that I should 
 lose her favor in the same way, for we always fear 
 
68 
 
 what we do not understand, and I could never dis¬ 
 cover any reason for her fickleness of mind. My 
 presentiment was but too true. One day she ex¬ 
 changed me, and many of my sisters, for a Tulip, 
 and I was thrown into a pit, from which I was after¬ 
 wards drawn out, and sent, with many other flowers, 
 to this country 
 
 “ I never knew what Hyacinths had done to lose 
 their value in the eyes of the world; but at the 
 present day, we are only cherished by the lovers of 
 nature. I do not mean to complain of this,” she 
 added, “ for such friends alone are lasting ones, but 
 I wish I could understand why I was one day so 
 valuable, and the next so insignificant.” 
 
 Mary was as much at a loss as the Hyacinth. 
 She was not yet old enough to know, that the favor 
 of the world depends upon the fashion of a day; 
 
69 
 
 and that greater changes are sometimes known than 
 the substitution of a Tulip for a Hyacinth. 
 
 But the Hyacinth, after a moment’s pensive 
 thought, resumed: “ I believe my friend Tulip 
 afterwards experienced the same vicissitudes of for¬ 
 tune that I did. She and her sisters were for a time 
 the favorite of princes, and more valuable than pre¬ 
 cious gems, but now she is even more humbled than 
 I am ; for Hyacinths are still considered worthy 
 ornaments of the bower of beauty. But I believe 
 these reverses do not hurt her feelings so much as 
 
 O 
 
 they do mine. It is true that I had rather live under 
 the blue sky, and drink the waters of heaven pure 
 from the beloved clouds, than to reside under the 
 most splendid roof made by the hand of man,—but 
 in this foreign soil, a slight neglect destroys my 
 health and vigor, and often I have not strength to 
 open my bosom to the blessed sun. 
 
70 
 
 “We are all in fine spirits this beautiful spring, 
 for your mamma loves us dearly, and that is the 
 only consolation that exiles can have for the lost 
 heaven and the lost earth of home. I often wish 
 I were as hardy and as unconcerned as my friend 
 Tulip.” 
 
THE TULIPS. 
 
 A tall Tulip, an “ Incomparable Verport,” so 
 called from its cherry-colored cup and shining brown 
 streaks, one of a family formerly very distinguished, 
 and who had been listening to the gentle complaints 
 of the sweet Hyacinth with an expression of some 
 contempt, after waiting a few moments, with much 
 ceremony, till she was sure her fair friend had ceased 
 speaking, now addressed the little girl, who could 
 hardly turn away for an instant from the hyacinthine 
 smiles and voices and plum-like odors. 
 
 “ I should like to know,” she said, “ how my 
 
72 
 
 cousin Orientalis Hyacinthus knows my feelings, 
 for I am not in the habit of communicating them to 
 her. If she did not belong to the great family of 
 Lilies, of which I also am a member, and whose 
 motto is Peace, I should say some things of her 
 that I could say,—but I shall content myself with 
 telling you my history, and leave you to judge which 
 has the most reason to complain of their destiny. 
 My native country is Persia, and my name is the 
 same as that which is given to the head-dress of 
 Persian princes and nobles. It is only in foreign 
 countries that my family has ceased to be highly 
 valued, for in my native land we are still held in 
 honor. I was myself present at a feast of Tulips, 
 in the Seraglio of the Sultan at Constantinople, to 
 which I was sent from Persia by particular request. 
 It is impossible to give you any idea of the splendor 
 of that festival, for there never was any thing like it 
 
73 
 
 in this country, or perhaps in any other. I was as¬ 
 tonished, myself, at the number of my own rela¬ 
 tions ; many, whom I had never before even heard 
 of, were there, and the ladies of the Seraglio, and the 
 lords of the court, tried their very best to equal us 
 in the colors of their robes and head-dresses. Miss 
 Hyacinth never saw the like in her life, for it was 
 not till she went to Holland that she was considered 
 such a great personage. In Persia, Hyacinths are 
 only little blue wild flowers, half hidden in the grass. 
 Thousands and thousands of Tulips were at the 
 feast; and the most beautiful music was played to 
 us, while the lords and ladies danced in honor of the 
 Spring, who had called us into being. We are such 
 favorites in our own country, that we are used as 
 emblems of the most opposite sentiments. Those 
 who love most deeply and ardently present us to the 
 loved, as emblems of the intensity of their affection, 
 
74 
 
 
 and if any one is faithless in love, we are sent to 
 speak an angry reproof to the false one. 
 
 “ In Holland I was no less honored than Miss 
 Hyacinth, and for three hundred years was an object 
 of desire and pursuit. Then I never had any thinjr 
 to do with common flowers or common people, as 
 my cousin well knows ; and it was not very amiable 
 in her to refer to the short-lived favor of that prin¬ 
 cess, who never loved any thing for its true value, 
 but only in proportion as the multitude prized it. I 
 have had enough admiration to satisfy any one, and 
 I have too much spirit to be cast down because the 
 fashion has changed. I know my own worth, and 
 care for the love of no one, if I have plenty of room, 
 and can see and be seen. There is not much to 
 admire in this narrow garden, to be sure, especially , 
 for one who has lived in courts, but 1 can hold up 
 my head over most of the weeds, and with my eye 
 
75 
 
 upon the sun, can live pretty contentedly on the mem¬ 
 ory of past glory, hoping for better days than these. 
 
 “ One advantage we derived from living in Hol¬ 
 land, as well as our cousin Hyacinth ; and I think 
 she might have mentioned it instead of making such 
 complaints. The fine care they took of us there, 
 increased our beauty very much, and gave us 
 strength to reflect many varieties of color. She 
 has even more cause for gratitude than I have, for 
 as I said before, in the vicinity of Bagdad, where 
 her country relations live, Hyacinths are only of one 
 color, while Tulips have a great many. We were 
 carried from Persia to Constantinople by a Sultan, 
 who chose us for our beauty, and not for merchan¬ 
 dise.” 
 
 The Hyacinth replied, for all this was meant for 
 her rather than for Mary, that she willingly owed 
 that cause of gratitude to the Dutch gardeners ; for 
 
76 
 
 though she did not think they did it out of love for 
 her, but rather that they might get a higher price for 
 her, it was certainly true that the character of Hya¬ 
 cinths had improved, since they had been made by 
 cultivation capable of receiving more various influ¬ 
 ences from the great source of light. 
 
 The Tulip, whose vanity alone was gratified by 
 the improvement, held her head very stiffly, and 
 pretended not to hear this remark. A slight curl of 
 her lip alone gave evidence of the emotion with 
 which she received it. 
 
 “ I wish,” she said rather impatiently, “ that the 
 red-winged black-birds would come and eat up 
 these flies who are preparing to lay their eggs in 
 my bulb.” 
 
 Mary wondered how a flower that was so hand¬ 
 some could be so unamiable ; but at that moment 
 her eye was attracted by a little wren who ran up 
 

 77 
 
 the stately stalk of a Crown Imperial, and seemed 
 to be much delighted with what he found in her 
 pendent cups. 
 
 The Hyacinths followed Mary down the path with 
 their sweet odors which seemed to say, “ come back 
 again.” 
 
THE CROWN IMPERIAL. 
 
 Mary crept as softly as possible, that she might 
 not frighten the little brown wren; but birds have 
 learnt that mankind are not always friendly to them, 
 and the wren had often seen a being, with large eyes 
 and long arms, firing at her friends in the orchard. 
 Its delicate ears caught the sound of footsteps, and 
 just as Mary thought her hand was upon it, away it 
 flew. She would not have hurt it for the world, but 
 it did not know that, and its wings were given it for 
 safety, as well as pleasure. 
 
 The bells of the flower still trembled with the 
 
80 
 
 motion the lively little creature had imparted to 
 them ; but on looking up into them, Mary saw a 
 clear drop of water hanging in each, which even the 
 trembling of the plant did not dislodge. Beautiful 
 as it was, she wondered that the wren could ap¬ 
 proach near enough to taste it, so unpleasant an odor 
 streamed from the flower. She immediately drew 
 back, and thought she had rather hear the proud 
 flower’s story from a distance, for it seemed to her 
 that she must be more like the Tulip than the Hya¬ 
 cinth. 
 
 The flower observed the motion, and mistaking 
 the feeling she inspired for one of respect, said in a 
 condescending tone, “ you may approach, little girl, 
 if you wish to know about those transparent drops 
 within my bells. I hang them there for that little 
 bird, who alone of all the feathered tribes comes to 
 see me. This tall stalk which supports my flowing 
 
81 
 
 robes, is nearly hollow, and the water which my 
 roots imbibe from the ground rises through it to 
 nourish my little friend. He breakfasts here every 
 morning, for as fast as he sips one drop, another 
 supplies its place. 
 
 “ I have heard those flowers talking to you, and 
 speaking of my country, where they seem to think 
 they are of great importance. It is very true that 
 the gaudy colors of the flaunting Tulips attract much 
 attention, and the fragrance of the Hyacinths is very 
 agreeable to some people. But the Tulips are very 
 flippant, talking all the time of their former impor¬ 
 tance and the festivals in Turkey. 
 
 “ Did you ever see a king, little girl ? I have 
 never seen one in this country, but in Persia they 
 sometimes wear a crown to which I bear some re¬ 
 semblance, and from which I take my name. Bot¬ 
 anists, I know, call me Frittilaria, from some fancied 
 6 
 
resemblance of my petals to a chess-board; but I 
 much prefer the other name. Both remind me of 
 happier days, when in my own country I was hon¬ 
 ored as becomes my rank and figure ;—for chess is 
 a royal game, which was invented to amuse a Per¬ 
 sian king. In that land I was taught how to pre¬ 
 serve my dignity. The kings of Persia were the 
 first kings in the world who felt it beneath them to 
 be approached by common people. They are wor¬ 
 shipped by great lords on bended knee. 
 
 “ The Hyacinth talks of her love for the sun; 
 but she gazes upon him with very little respect. I 
 have too much self-respect to boast, but it is not 
 modest or becoming to gaze so. I never turn to¬ 
 wards the sun, till he bids me look upon him, but 
 reverently veil my face till the season arrives when 
 my seeds must ripen in his rays. 
 
 “ Do you observe the silvery stripes upon the 
 
r 
 
 83 
 
 green folds of my mantle ? They are the badge of 
 the most distinguished branch of the Crown Imperial 
 family.” 
 
 A slight noise over her head made Mary look up. 
 It was the bending of a twig upon which the little 
 wren had just alighted, waiting for an opportunity 
 to finish his breakfast. Mary, who did not love to 
 hear the sweet Hyacinths reproached for their con¬ 
 fiding love and adoration, stole gently back to them 
 to say that she loved them still, in spite of what 
 their proud compatriot had said. Preoccupied with 
 a sense of her own importance, the haughty flower 
 did not know that the soul which loves to gaze 
 upon the light, becomes gradually assimilated to the 
 nature of the parent Sun. 
 
 J 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 > 1 
 
NARCISSUS. 
 
 A bed of the many-colored Narcissus stood near, 
 whose coroneled cups attracted the little girl. They 
 called to her, with many voices, to come away and 
 talk to them; and as they waved in the morning 
 wind, they reminded her of the song of the poet. 
 
 “ I wandered lonely as a cloud 
 That floats on high o’er vales and hills, 
 
 When all at once I saw a crowd, 
 
 A host of golden Daffodils, 
 
 Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 
 
 Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 
 
 I gazed and gazed, but little thought 
 What wealth to me the show had brought. 
 
 And oft when on my couch I lie 
 
86 
 
 In vacant or in pensive mood, 
 
 They flash upon that inward eye 
 Which is the bliss of solitude ; 
 
 And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
 
 And dances with the Daffodils.” 
 
 There were many others, beside the golden 
 “ Daffydowndillys,” (as flower-loving old Gerard 
 calls them,) and Mary did not know at first which 
 spoke. There was the Milk White Daffy, with 
 its thick cluster of pure white flowers, and Daffies 
 with purple coronets, that came from the Swiss val¬ 
 leys, and must know a great deal about glaciers and 
 snow-capped mountains, which Mary loved to hear 
 about; and the King’s Chalice, from Persia ; and 
 the White Sea Daffodil, which grows wild on 
 the banks of the gulf of Venice. Mary thought this 
 the most beautiful, with its slender pendent petals, 
 and its long white stamens tipped with green rising 
 gracefully in the middle ;—but it was the Primrose 
 Peerless which spoke. 
 
87 
 
 “ I have the same claim to your notice as the 
 Hyacinth,” she said, “ for I, too, was a mortal once. 
 Great injustice has been done to Narcissus, of whom 
 it is said that he was so in love with lus own face, 
 reflected in a fountain, that he killed himself with 
 vexation, because that was only a shadow. I will 
 tell you the true story. Narcissus had a sister 
 whom he deeply loved, and with whom he hunted 
 in the woods, and sported by the mountain streams. 
 She died, and his only consolation was to gaze at 
 himself in a fountain, because his face so nfally 
 resembled hers that it seemed to recal her to his 
 sight. But it was not herself. He could nolongei 
 hear the voice of the loved one, nor embrace her 
 gentle form ; and when he killed himself for grief, 
 and the nymphs of the fountain rais^fu^al pile 
 to burn his body, that they might preserve the lov- 
 
88 
 
 ing ashes in an urn, they could find nothing but a 
 flower, like this one you are looking at. 
 
 “ I should like very well to look at myself in the 
 water, but I am very happy here with my cousins 
 the Hyacinths, for we can talk together of our beau¬ 
 tiful homes by the dEgean Sea, where the souls of 
 men love to linger in flowery forms after their own 
 are destroyed by time and death. The humming 
 bird comes to sip nectar from our cups, when he trav¬ 
 els southward with the sun ; and the sparrows find 
 among our flowers the insects they love to eat. We 
 are not so much beloved as the Hyacinths are, for 
 our fragrance deadens the thoughts of men. A Gre¬ 
 cian poet called us the Garlands of the Infernal gods, 
 because he thought we were a fitting crown for those 
 who were dulled by death.” 
 
 Mary wondered if he did not know that our 
 
 / 
 
89 
 
 thoughts are brighter than ever when our bodies are 
 turned to dust. 
 
 “Perhaps this is a punishment we must bear for 
 the crime of Narcissus, for he certainly was un¬ 
 grateful to destroy the beautiful body which was 
 given him to clothe his spirit. But we are consoled 
 by the possession of a healing power in our roots, 
 which are of great service to men. They will heal 
 deep wounds, extract the anguish of fire, and they 
 will even draw thorns from the flesh, and restore 
 the fairness of a faded cheek.” 
 
 The words of the gentle Narcissus soothed 
 Mary’s spirit, which had been troubled by the tales 
 of wrongs and discontent that she had heard in the 
 garden. She was running away to the happy fields 
 where the wild flowers grew, when she saw a 
 mournful Iris trembling on its stalk. 
 
Tulip. Uvularia. 
 
THE IRIS. 
 
 Mary stopped, but did not approach the Iris, for 
 her little heart was awed by its dark color and mys¬ 
 terious motion. Why did she tremble all the time ? 
 Not a breath of air stirred the other flowers. Did 
 not the Sun love her? Were not her sister Irises 
 kind ? They looked gay, laughing in the sunshine, 
 and dressed in their rainbow robes; but she stood 
 apart,—sad, solitary, and in a mourning garb. Mary 
 wished she knew her sad secret, but she could not 
 ask. She was very well acquainted with the Blue 
 Flags of the meadow, and the Flower-de-luces of 
 
92 
 
 the garden; but this stranger she had never before 
 seen. 
 
 If Mary had been a little older, she might have 
 felt a sympathy with the flower of the trembling 
 heart, but her own happy one had felt only the beat¬ 
 ings of joy. The Iris, even before she spoke, gave 
 her an intimation of something which her own soul 
 had not yet told her. 
 
 The flower must have seen, by the earnest look 
 of the child’s sweet eyes, that she was longing to 
 know something of her; though at first she thought 
 her gayer sisters must have attracted her attention. 
 At last she spoke. 
 
 “ I came from my native land, little girl, a mes¬ 
 senger of love, but not of happiness. I was sent to 
 your father by an absent friend who was once as 
 joyous as yourself; but alas ! he is now languish¬ 
 ing in a deep dungeon, shut out from the bright sun, 
 
93 
 
 the free air, and more than all, the faces of beloved 
 friends. 
 
 “ My native land is Austria ; where the sun shines 
 bright, but not upon happy fields ; where the air 
 flows fresh, but loaded with the sighs of the mis¬ 
 erable. My former possessor,* when he was carried 
 from his own beloved country to my unhappy one, 
 took me from the brook side as he went into the 
 dungeon, and sent me to his friend, an emblem of 
 his dark fate. 
 
 “ He was good and kind, and loved little children, 
 as well as flowers; and was willing to spend his 
 life in doing them good ; and in restoring his be¬ 
 loved country to the freedom and happiness it en¬ 
 joyed before the stranger oppressed it. But the 
 King of mine—alas, that my dear native sky should 
 look down upon so hard a heart!—was afraid of 
 
 * An Italian exile. 
 
f 
 
 94 
 
 good and courageous men who might seek to de¬ 
 stroy his wicked power, and he stole away many of 
 the best people from their beautiful Italy, and shut 
 them up in his strong prisons. 
 
 “ Perhaps you think flowers need not trouble 
 themselves about the sorrows of men ; but we were 
 made to minister to their happiness, and to con¬ 
 sole them when in affliction. It is our greatest 
 delight to please those who are superior to us. 
 We are even willing to leave the fresh air and sun¬ 
 shine, to go into the darkened chamber of the sick, 
 though it shortens our lives, and we die without ri¬ 
 pening into perfection. If I had been left to grow 
 wild in my native fields, I might never have known 
 any thing of human sorrow; but I will not regret 
 even my beloved home, since I have given the so¬ 
 lace of sympathy to the unfortunate. I would not 
 change places with all my sisters, whose very name 
 
95 
 
 is Rainbow, bright and beautiful as they look this 
 sweet morning;—for my mourning dress is the tie 
 which binds me to the sorrowing heart. I thank 
 the Sun for giving me the power to draw forth its 
 pent up waters. 
 
 If you would like to hear about the brilliant 
 Irises that reflect all the colors of heaven and earth, 
 I doubt not they will tell you. There is the White 
 Fleur-de-lis of France—the badge of kings. She 
 concentiates all colors, and will talk to you of regal 
 splendors.” 
 
 As she was speaking, a bee came on his zigzag 
 course through the air, and hovered over the vari¬ 
 egated band of flowers. Many an Iris hoped his 
 first visit would be to her, and each rejoiced in the 
 gay colors she wore; but the bee honored the 
 stranger with his first salutation. He thrust him¬ 
 self gently under the leaf-like stigma, to find the 
 
96 
 
 precious drops of nectar which lay hidden there. 
 Mary was afraid he would break the Iris, but One 
 wiser than Mary had taught him how to do it; and 
 as he cunningly visited each sweet spot, she ob¬ 
 served that his wings were covered with yellow 
 dust. She watched him with great anxiety, and in 
 a few moments he flew away to other flowers, to cull 
 sweets for his hive. 
 
 “ That little bee,” said the Iris, “ is a welcome 
 visiter. If it were not for him I should have no 
 seeds. He little knows the service he does me ; 
 but when he comes for the drop of nectar that is in 
 store for him, the touch of his wings bursts my an¬ 
 thers, and the pollen which adheres to him falls 
 upon the stigma as he passes from one side to the 
 other. I did not expect that he would notice the 
 stranger, but I see that he is as loving as my own 
 Austrian bee, and I shall now have no fears for the 
 
97 
 
 future. If my own land were but as happy a one as 
 this, I should love the blue sky better.” 
 
 Mary wished that it was. She hoped she should 
 never go to that country, where good people were 
 put in prison. It was something she could not un¬ 
 derstand, and instead of going to the meadow, she 
 returned thoughtfully to her mother to tell her the 
 sad story she had heard. 
 
 7 
 
 s 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 \ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
THE MAY-FLOWERS. 
 
 It was May morning. Mary, like all other little 
 girls, was lip as early as the dawn began to steal 
 over the sky, and long before the sun climbed the 
 eastern hills. Every one who loves flowers and 
 gicen fields, loves to go Maying. Even if the clouds 
 are dark and the cold ram-drops are beginning to fall, 
 there seems to be sunshine in the grass,—for it is 
 May-day. The Queen of the Spring has called all 
 hei flowers, and their bright faces are gleaming from 
 every nook. 
 
 Sometimes May mornings will be cold, but this 
 
100 
 
 one was warm and beautiful. Long before the sun 
 rose, the light vapor that had been floating in the air 
 was turned into rose-colored and golden and purple 
 clouds, to welcome his coming; and little islands of 
 glorious mist were hanging in the still blue. It 
 seemed as if the floor of the sky, as well as of the 
 earth, was covered with flowers. 
 
 The hills and fields were sprinkled with happy 
 children, and the tuneful air answered to the sound 
 of their happy voices. The May-birds had all come 
 back from their winter visits, and they were now 
 flying from tree to tree, and singing as if their little 
 throats would burst—for May-day had come. The 
 peewink was building his nest among the white 
 blossoms of the choke cherry; the cinnamon-col¬ 
 ored thrush was hiding his among the dark leaves 
 of the saxifrage ; the bobolinks chattered from the 
 cornels, and others, too numerous to mention, filled 
 
101 
 
 the air with life and motion The butterflies were 
 so happy in the sun’s beams that they went soaring 
 up into the air, as if they were sure the birds would 
 not touch them. And who that saw the dragon-flies 
 of all hues wheeling and darting about, would not 
 have sung with the poet,— 
 
 “ Save for the Eternal thought, 
 
 Bright shape, thou hadst not been ! 
 
 He from dull matter wrought 
 Thy purple and thy green; 
 
 And made thee take, 
 
 E’en for my sake, 
 
 Thy beauty and thy sheen.” 
 
 The birds were glad that the children had come to 
 shout for joy on the hills, and the children were glad 
 that the birds had come home again to sing so 
 sweetly, and that the flowers were all awake and 
 blooming so brightly. All things were glad that 
 May-day had come. 
 
 f— 
 
 All the flowers wished to speak at once, and as 
 
102 
 
 they called Mary from every side, she knew not 
 which way to turn. 
 
 The pale Uvularias rang their yellow bells with 
 all their might, that she might come and hear how 
 they were related to the Lilies, and see the little 
 tubercles inside their petals, and how their stems 
 pierced through their leaves. It surely was not 
 vanity that made them ring their bells so loudly, for 
 they told Mary they had some cousins named Gran- 
 diflora who were handsomer than themselves. 
 
 The Erythronium, sometimes called the Dog’s 
 Tooth Violet, said very modestly that she too was 
 a Lily. The bright sun that morning had made her 
 roll her yellow and crimson petals as far back as 
 possible. She looked as if she would have been 
 glad to turn her eye up to him if she could. It was 
 only in fair weather, she said, that she dared to ex¬ 
 pand so far ; she always felt afraid of clouds, and of 
 
103 
 
 the dark, too, and shut herself up as tight as she 
 could when they came. Mary could not think any 
 thing would hurt such a pretty creature. It seemed 
 as if darkness itself would smile to see her, stand¬ 
 ing so beautiful upon her solitary stalk, drooping 
 her graceful head over her dark brown, lance-shaped, 
 spotted leaves. The Pearl-bordered Frittillary, a 
 brilliant butterfly, with glossy black and bright 
 orange-colored wings, hovered over her, enamored. 
 
 But Mary had no more time to look at it, for a 
 pert vellow Butter-cup called to her that she was 
 Shakspeare’s “ cuckoo-bud of yellow hue,” and that 
 her real name was Ranunculus. She did not add 
 that she was named from a frog, which would have 
 been the whole truth, but said it was not true that 
 she made butter yellow, and she wished no one 
 would call her Butter-cup any more. 
 
 “ If you should ask the cows whether they love 
 
104 
 
 to eat ray flowers, they will tell you no, very quick¬ 
 ly,” and here the Ranunculus burst out a laughing. 
 
 Mary could not think what she meant, but as soon 
 as the flower could recover herself, she said, “ when 
 they do touch me they are w r ell punished, for I make 
 their mouths smart so, that they scamper about as 
 if they were mad,”—and then all the Ranunculuses 
 joined in the laugh at the thought of the poor clumsy 
 cows running about and kicking up their heels. 
 
 Mary could not help laughing too, though she 
 thought this very unkind; but the flowers went on 
 to say— , 
 
 “ The Anemones, that you admire so much, are 
 not so sweet and amiable as you think they are. 
 They are distant relations of mine, and I know all 
 about them. They look very pretty to you, and 
 have very pretty pink robes, and toss their heads 
 about as if they were mighty grand, but they are 
 
105 
 
 bitter and caustic enough when you know them 
 better. They hate the cattle as badly as I do, and 
 poison all that bite them. I can’t blame them much 
 for that, to be sure, but you may be certain that they 
 are pretty spiteful. And this Clematis that is run¬ 
 ning over the wall, belongs to the Ranunculaceas fam¬ 
 ily also, and the fine Peonies that grow in your gar¬ 
 den, and those Delphinirems that people admire 
 so much for their shades of blue, they are all alike, 
 though they are so handsome. The leaves of some 
 of the Clematis will make your fingers sore while 
 you are admiring them—then every body knows how 
 poisonous the Aconites and Hellebores are. You 
 would not like flowers so much if you knew them 
 better.” 
 
 Here the Butter-cup paused, as if to think of 
 some more evil to speak of her neighbors. Mary 
 disliked all she said very much. She was disap- 
 
106 
 
 pointed that the bright golden flowers were so ill- 
 natured, and she remembered that the little Ane¬ 
 mone in the meadow, had told her that some of 
 her cousins were used for medicine, and that med¬ 
 icine must not be trifled with. She knew how good 
 it was in God to make medicines to cure the sick, 
 and she did not believe that he gave the flowers 
 their bitter and caustic qualities except to do good 
 with, though this ill-tempered Ranunculus tried to 
 make her think otherwise. 
 
 She recollected all that the cruciform flowers of 
 the turnip, the cabbage, the radish and the mustard 
 in the kitchen garden had told her. Even they, 
 which are so useful and good to eat, have qualities 
 which can only be safely used for medicine, and 
 must not be rashly meddled with. The umbellif¬ 
 erous flowers that are poisonous when wild, can be 
 cultivated and made good food for man—such as the 
 
107 
 
 celery. She had heard that some plants produced 
 deadly sleep if eaten while the sap was ascending 
 in the spring of the year, but were only pleasantly 
 aromatic when it had been elaborated in the leaves 
 through which the sleepy qualities passed into the 
 air. She knew that the beautiful G illy Flowers, 
 Hesperides and Candytufts, were of the same fam¬ 
 ily as those useful friends of the table, and yet they 
 all possessed qualities which were not agreeable, 
 but which God had given them to be used in the 
 right time and place. Mary knew indeed, from all 
 that the flowers had told her as she walked through 
 the fields and the garden, even from the tall trees that 
 had bent over and spoken to her as she sat beneath 
 their shade, that not a plant grew on the beneficent 
 earth, which was not created for the good as well 
 as the pleasure of man. Indeed, the whole earth 
 seemed to her to be full of God’s goodness. The 
 
108 
 
 birds sang to her of their happiness. The bees 
 and the butterflies hummed and fluttered their wings 
 in joy and gladness. The sheep gambolled on the 
 hills. The little fish sported in the brook. The 
 very leaves of the trees and blades of grass made 
 music as they waved in the gay winds, that some¬ 
 times softly whispered, and sometimes loudly thun¬ 
 dered their life and enjoyment. These thoughts 
 passed rapidly through her mind, for all that she 
 had ever known seemed to rise up at that mo¬ 
 ment in her memory, and speak its testimony to 
 the goodness of God. When she grew older, and 
 found that there were some people in the world 
 who liked to speak ill of others, and who were 
 ungrateful for the powers and blessings that God 
 had bestowed upon them, she remembered that a 
 few among all the flowers that spoke to her in 
 her childhood, were like them, and it troubled her 
 
Pitcher Plant. Witch Hazel. Marygold. Trillium Erectum. 
 
109 
 
 loving heart to know that there could be ingrat¬ 
 itude in such a world. 
 
 Just at that moment she saw her own brindled 
 cow walking slowly along as if seeking some¬ 
 thing good to eat. 
 
 Before the Ranunculuses could laugh again, her 
 little hands had torn them all from their grassy 
 bed and thrown them over the fence. Mary was 
 sorry to spoil any one’s pleasure on May-day, 
 but she could not let the innocent old cow be 
 made unhappy. 
 
 The other flowers trembled at the fate of their 
 companions. The Trillium Erectum tried to hide 
 her gloomy blossoms of dark brown and purple 
 under her diamond-shaped leaves, for her con¬ 
 science told her she was not contributing to the 
 pleasure of those around her. Mary, however, 
 was too much occupied with the pain in her hands 
 
110 
 
 to observe the disagreeable odor, for the spiteful 
 Ranunculuses had blistered them in a moment. 
 
 Stooping to pick up her bonnet, she saw sweet 
 little Trillium Cernuum bending her white corolla 
 under her three-leaved mantle, trembling, but not 
 with a guilty conscience. She smiled when Mary 
 did, but she was too much agitated to speak till 
 Mary said, “good morning.” There was some¬ 
 thing in her triune form that riveted the little girl’s 
 attention, though she had never been told that this 
 was the magic number which was fabled to find 
 an answering chord in the fair proportions of the 
 human soul. 
 
 “ I generally live in the thicket,” said Cernuum, 
 “ but the trees have been cut down since I was 
 here last. My cousin Pictum, who lives on the 
 mountain, can best tell you about us all; she wears 
 a white and purple robe turned over at the edge, 
 
Ill 
 
 and is accustomed to see people.” The kind- 
 hearted little flower did not mention the other 
 cousin that stood by, for she would not expose to 
 a stranger the envious heart of Erectum. 
 
 A Convallaria Racemosa, who had by this time 
 quite forgotten the Butter-cups, told Mary that if 
 she would come in the fall of the year, she might 
 take up one of her roots and see the resemblance 
 to Solomon’s Seal which gave rise to one of her 
 names. But Mary’s curiosity was not so strong as 
 her love for this beautiful flower, which she knew 
 was related to the Lily of the Valley, a favorite of 
 her own as well as of the nightingale. She told 
 her so ; and then another little cousin, encouraged 
 by this, and whose name was Stellata, spoke up, 
 and said she was named from the stars. 
 
 Multiflora, who stood under the hedge, and was 
 still smaller than Stellata, and gently clasped by 
 
112 
 
 each one of her leaves, as if each one loved her 
 dearly, told Mary she was the favorite of the cin¬ 
 namon-colored thrush, the sweetest songster in the 
 woods, and that the peewinks and the bobolinks 
 came to see her every day. 
 
 The Cowslip said her other name was Caltha, 
 which was the Greek word for goblet; and she was 
 willing to tell such a kind little girl, that her flower- 
 buds were as good to eat as capers, if they were 
 gathered early enough. “ It is too late now,” she 
 added, rather hurriedly. “ The cows do not eat 
 us,” this she said with a shudder, “ unless they are 
 very hungry indeed. I hope they will not be so 
 this morning. I like to impart the sweets of my 
 goblet to that butterfly—the one with pale olive- 
 brown wings dotted with black—'for he tells me 
 stories about many flowers. That bush by my 
 side is the morning and evening Primrose. She 
 
113 
 
 looks faded now, but she wakes before the sun, 
 sleeps all day, and then wakes again after he has 
 gone down at night. I wish I could see her, but I 
 cannot wake so early in the morning, and I have 
 tried in vain to keep my eyes open after sunset. It 
 certainly is not the sun that withers her petals every 
 day, for they droop quite as much when he does not 
 shine. I wonder if she would not like to live 
 longer,—but my friend butterfly says he can give 
 me no information about it. lie says silk-worms 
 love Primrose leaves, and they are often gathered 
 to be steeped in wine, which then lulls people to 
 sleep.” 
 
 A Geranium looked very much afraid Mary would 
 
 escape her, so she interrupted the Cowslip. “ I am 
 
 named from a Greek word signifying crane, from 
 
 some resemblance of my seed-vessel to that bird’s 
 
 head. I know,” said she, blushing with conscious 
 8 
 
114 
 
 inferiority, “ that you will be astonished to hear tiiat 
 I am one of that family of splendid flowers so care¬ 
 fully cultivated in hot-houses. But it is true. Like 
 the children of men, our race is wonderfully im¬ 
 proved by cultivation. I believe there are as many 
 as sixty of my relations highly prized by all lovers 
 of beautiful things, and their fragrance is oftentimes 
 as delicious as their colors are variegated and bril¬ 
 liant. I suppose they love hot-houses as well as I 
 do the fresh air and open sky. One would surely 
 think so, to see how much they improve in beauty 
 there, and in health too, for their colors are more 
 brilliant than mine, and their leaves more vigorous, 
 and filled with spicy odors 
 
 If you examine my stamens you will see that they 
 are all united at the base into one tube, encircling 
 the germ. From this circumstance, botanists call us 
 of the Monodelphia class, meaning one brotherhood. 
 
115 
 
 Anemonifolium is the most distinguished of my 
 relations; she has delicate, glossy green leaves, 
 shaped like a fern, and large red blossoms, and lives 
 at the Cape of Good Hope. Another is named 
 Washingtonia.” Mary thought this ought to be the 
 queen of flowers to be worthy of such a name, for her 
 grand-mother had often talked to her of that good 
 Father of her country. 
 
 But now she espied a troop of Columbines on a 
 rock, whose dark face was gleaming with delight, as 
 they seemed to be climbing over it on every side. 
 Of all the flowers that came to the May, none were 
 to her so beautiful as the Columbines. They never 
 seemed to stand still like other flowers, but as they 
 waved gaily in the wind, they looked as if they were 
 running about as fast as the happy children who 
 were snatching them from their nooks and pinna¬ 
 cles. But they did not look so fresh or so beautiful 
 
116 
 
 after they were torn from the rocks, and separated 
 from the green landscape they adorned. The other 
 children did not know why it was so, but Mary 
 picked them up as fast as they threw them away, 
 for she knew it broke the hearts of flowers to be 
 plucked and then neglected. 
 
 All these Columbines were scarlet and yellow, 
 but one of them, who said she would tell Mary her 
 book-name if she would never call her by it, spoke 
 of white, and blue, and purple, and rose-colored 
 cousins who lived, some in the Swiss mountains, 
 some among Siberian snows, and many in dear 
 America, wherever it is cool and sunny too. “ Bot¬ 
 anists call us Aquilegia,” she said, “ because our 
 spurs look something like an eagle s claws. They 
 call us Pajarillas in Spain, which I like better, for 
 that means a little bird; but those great eagles steal 
 little birds right out of the sky, and I do not like 
 
117 
 
 them. How I love to play with the wind ! I wish 
 I was down on the ground—will you put me down ? 
 What have they done to me ? Oh, look at those 
 butterflies among my dear sisters ! and there is a 
 golden Robin sipping honey from their nectaries. 
 I saved all mine for him this morning. Do not 
 carry me away—where is the Sun?—Oh, what is 
 the matter with me?” And then the once happy 
 flower fainted away, and Mary tried in vain to re¬ 
 vive her. If she could have reached home in time, 
 a little warm water would have restored her beauty 
 for a while, but the thread of life had been snapped 
 and she was quite dead. Just before she breathed 
 her last she pressed Mary’s hand with one of her 
 pretty fingers and whispered, “ do not eat my flow 
 ers for they will poison you.” Mary determined 
 to pluck no more, but to let them enjoy life in their 
 own way, till their little spirits took flight as their 
 
118 
 
 mother Nature meant they should do when they had 
 quite fulfilled their destiny on earth. That destiny 
 certainly was to make happy ,—and what flower of 
 the field ever gave more joy to the heart of childhood, 
 of manhood, of golden robins, or of humming-birds, 
 than the sweet Columbine, full of nectar and beauty ? 
 The terrible lion himself is said to be charmed into 
 softness by her taste and perfume. 
 
 As the little girl wandered on through the “ sing¬ 
 ing valley,” the modest Celandine arrested her 
 steps, to tell her the swallow had come home, and 
 that she was named Cheladonia, from that merry 
 little bird. She said her roots would make a bath to 
 sharpen the sight of Mary’s eyes, if she wanted to 
 see any better,—sometimes the swallow rubbed his 
 little peepers with her leaves—and that she would 
 cure the pain in her hands which the Butter-cup had 
 
119 
 
 caused. Mary could have kissed the cunning little 
 yellow flowers peeping through the grass. 
 
 Trientalis called her now to say that she was the 
 favorite flower of Linnaeus. Mary had never heard 
 of Linnaeus, hut she supposed he must be a botanist, 
 and she did not wonder that Trientalis was beloved 
 by every one who looked upon her cluster of star- 
 like flowers as they rise from her whorl of shining 
 leaves. It seemed as if green Nature had caught 
 the falling snow-flakes and held them suspended 
 there. 
 
 “ I differ a little from all other flowers,” said she, 
 “ and my kind friend said I should stand in his great 
 book all alone, distinguished by my seven stamens 
 and pistils.* I suppose this is a great honor, but all 
 I understand about it is, that he loved me dearly. And 
 
 * Trientalis, the favorite flower of Linnaeus, is the only one of its 
 class and order. 
 
120 
 
 he said I was formed in the fullness of beauty, express¬ 
 ed by my proportions, and which attracts all souls.” 
 
 And then Arethusa greeted the loving child. The 
 hue of her petals was like the color in the warm 
 cheeks of youth when it is animated by exercise. 
 There was something human, too, in the tone of her 
 voice, as if she were one of those flowers that erst 
 were mortals. 
 
 “No,” said the Arethusa, as if she read Mary’s 
 thoughts, “ I was never a mortal, but first grew on 
 the banks of a fountain that was once as lovely a 
 being as ever trod this beautiful earth. I will tell you 
 the origin of my name. Arethusa was a nymph of 
 holy Elis. She was a daughter of old Ocean, and 
 often attended the goddess Diana in the chase. One 
 day when she was bathing in the river Alpheus, the 
 genius of that stream fell in love with her sweetness 
 and beauty. But the mortal maiden did not wish 
 
Swamp Honeysuckle, Gentian, Arethusa. Trefoil. 
 
121 
 
 to marry the river-god, and she fled from Alpheus, 
 who pursued her through the valleys, till exhausted 
 by fatigue she called on Diana for protection. The 
 goddess heard and changed her to a fountain. Then 
 the happy Alpheus thought to mingle his waters with 
 hers, but Diana opened a secret passage under the 
 earth, and Arethusa disappeared, nor rose to light 
 again, till she had attained a distant island. The river 
 followed under earth and sea, and rose also in the 
 Ortygian isle, and ever after, whatever was thrown 
 into the river of Elis, rose again in Ortygia. From that 
 fair maiden I was named, and perhaps my voice has 
 caught an echo of the music of hers, as she murmurs 
 through the rocky bed of her island home.” 
 
 Mary tripped on, and soon came to a bower where 
 the grass was covered with baskets of flowers and 
 strawberries. Wild flowers of all kinds that she had 
 seen that morning, had been gathered to deck this 
 
122 
 
 pretty bower, and they looked bright and happy 
 together there, as if they did not know that before 
 night they would all wither and die. 
 
 A bright form presided, whose brows were 
 wreathed with Mountain Laurel, and as Mary 
 gazed upon the open chalice of the flower, the 
 slender filaments sprang from their lurking places to 
 dash the pollen upon the expecting stigma. It was 
 Flora, goddess of flowers, who held in her hand 
 a crown of her own weaving, which she lightly 
 dropped on the head of her favorite child, for Mary 
 was to be Queen of May. 
 
 The happy Queen threw herself down, to rest 
 for a few moments, under a tall Hawthorn that 
 stood near the entrance of the bower. 
 
 “ Are you going to die ?” said the flower, and as 
 she spoke, she showered her with white blossoms, 
 as if she meant to cover her over. The child started 
 
123 
 
 from the ground. She did not like to think of 
 so soon leaving this beautiful world and all its flow¬ 
 ers and birds. “ What! are you afraid to die ?” said 
 the Hawthorn, quite surprised that she had alarmed 
 her. “Iam the emblem of Hope to some nations of 
 the earth. I came from the shore of the Red Sea, 
 where people live in deep caves, that are dark and 
 gloomy; and when their friends die, they strew 
 branches of my flowers over them, to express their 
 joy and hope of future happiness, for death is to 
 them the morning of a new day that has no night, 
 on which they shall meet to be separated no more, 
 “ In all countries, lovers come to sit under my 
 shade, and talk of future happiness in heaven if not 
 on earth. And we are a favorite ornament of gar¬ 
 dens ; but there we are not suffered to grow in our 
 native wildness. Every projecting twig is clipped 
 from the hedge by the hands of the gardeners, who 
 
124 
 
 have a strange enmity to some flowers, while upon 
 others they lavish a world of kindness. I once 
 heard a French lady say ; £ II faut souffrir, pour 
 etre belle;’ which means, we must suffer if we 
 wish to look beautiful—but I much prefer to grow 
 in my own way.” 
 
 As Mary gazed upon the lovely tree, she saw upon 
 it a curious little gossamer net-work of silk, and 
 there seemed to be life beneath it. It was the pa¬ 
 vilion of the Black-veined Hawthorn Butterfly, so 
 called from the veins of black that streak the edges 
 and nerves of its wings. 
 
 “ If you will lift the corner gently,” said the 
 flower, “ you will see the pretty creatures. Is it 
 not the cunningest house that ever was made ? 
 When they leave this silken home, they lay their 
 eggs upon my twigs, and cover them with a firm 
 shining substance, that often lasts for years ;—and 
 
125 
 
 then, not butterflies, but caterpillars come forth from 
 under it, and these again change to white butterflies, 
 streaked with black, like these you see.” 
 
 As Mary returned home at the end of this happy 
 day, she thought of all the Hawthorns had told her, 
 about the people who lived in caves and were so 
 glad to die, and the butterflies who lived under 
 their silken tents, and were so glad to be alive. She 
 had heard before of the birth of the butterfly from 
 out the body of the sluggish, greedy caterpillar; 
 and she thought how pleasant it would be, if she 
 could fly out of her body and go soaring up among 
 the birds and the clouds, far into the deep blue sky, 
 where her little baby brother went last summer 
 when he died. 
 
 The sun had now sunk behind the wood, and the 
 pale yellow flowers of the Evening Primrose were 
 bursting from their envelopes, like bright stars in 
 
126 
 
 the shadowed grass. Mary almost stepped upon 
 one that sprang to life at her feet. Was it music 
 that she heard ?” The Primrose sang— 
 
 “ Eve is my noon—at this still hour 
 When softly sleeps each sister flower, 
 
 I joy to be, 
 
 And conscious feel the pale moon shower 
 Her light on me.” 
 

Rhododendron. Arrow Head. Convallaria. Evening Primrose. 
 
MAY IN THE GARDEN. 
 
 The coming of the May made the flowers in the 
 garden so happy, that they too must talk to the little 
 girl, whenever they saw her. 
 
 The Rhododendron, with its rose-like flowers, told 
 of her habitation on the mountains, six thousand feet 
 above the sea, on the very borders of the region of 
 perpetual snow, for hers was indeed almost the last 
 shrub to be found so high. She belonged to the 
 family of the Roses, and was looking forward with 
 delight, like all the other flowers of her tribe, to the 
 day when they should yield the palm of beauty to 
 
128 
 
 the Rose herself, for June was coming. She could 
 speak, too, of the little pink flower that grows upon 
 the very snow itself, far up in the northern regions 
 where no earth is seen. Its name is Protococcus, 
 and it is so very small that the snow and even the 
 ice that floats on northern seas, seems covered with 
 rosy specks too tiny to be flowers, but sparkling in 
 the sun like precious stones. 
 
 As Mary stood listening, she saw that many little 
 insects that were amusing themselves with peeping 
 into the deep pink flowers, and sunning themselves 
 in the rays that were concentrated there, were 
 caught fast as if glued to the spot. “ These,” said 
 the Rhododendron, “are my prisoners. The warmth 
 of their bodies helps to ripen my seeds.” 
 
 Mary turned away from this sight, and now the 
 Lily of the Valley rung her silvery-toned bells, and 
 threw sweet perfumes at the little flower-lover, to 
 
129 
 
 make her come and tell her about her cousins the 
 Convallarias, who lived out in the fields; and then 
 she sighed, and said if she were at home in her own 
 dear England, she too should be out in the fields 
 under the majestic oaks. “ Never,” she murmured, 
 “ shall I forget the last night I stood upon 
 
 “ The bank whereon the wild-thyme blows, 
 
 Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows, 
 
 Quite overcanopied with lush woodbine, 
 
 With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.” 
 
 “ The nightingales made music from their ‘ fiery 
 hearts the stock dove 
 
 “ Sang of love and quiet blending, 
 
 Slow to begin, but never ending.” 
 
 Titania, Queen of fairies, called all her train that 
 
 evening to sport in the bright moonlight— 
 
 “ And lo! 
 
 Appeared the loyal Fays ! Some by degrees 
 Crept from the primrose buds that opened there, 
 
 And some from bell-shaped blossoms, like the bees, 
 
 Some from the dewy meads and rushy leas 
 Flew up like chafers when the rustics pass ; 
 
 9 
 
130 
 
 Some from the rivers, others from tall trees ^ 
 
 Dropped like sped blossoms, silent to the grass, 
 
 Spirits and elfins small, of every class. 
 
 Peri and Pixy, and quaint Puck the antic, 
 
 Brought Robin Good-fellow, that merry swain ; 
 
 And stealthy Mab, queen of old realms romantic, 
 
 Came too from distance in her tiny wain, 
 
 Fresh dropping from a cloud—some bloomy rain 
 Then circling the bright moon, had washed her car, 
 
 And still bedewed it with a various stain 
 Lastly came Ariel, shooting from a star, 
 
 Who bears all fairy embassies afar.”* 
 
 It was in the midst of their dances that night, that 
 old Time came and frightened them into the acorn- 
 cups, and when he would not listen to then piayers, 
 but threatened them with his scythe, Shakspeare, 
 the Bard of Avon, appeared among them and de¬ 
 fied old Time. And he promised they should live 
 
 forever in the memories of men. 
 
 Mary heard the nightingale, and saw the fairies, 
 till the silence of the “Valley Lily-bells” waked 
 
 * Thomas Hood. 
 
131 
 
 her from her waking dream. She knew who Shaks- 
 
 P eare was very well, for her mother had often read 
 to her his beautiful stories. 
 
 The Daisies, that t£ starry multitude,” said a poet 
 once called them “ the eye of day.” When Mary 
 told them they were very pretty, one smiled and 
 said bellis, one of her names, meant pretty, and 
 that in France they thought her so precious they 
 called her marguerite, (a pearl.) This little flower 
 was very different from all those Mary had seen ■ 
 its radiant face was composed of innumerable little 
 flow ers, each perfect in itself. The little pink 
 beauty told her she would see many such before 
 the snow came. 
 
 Mary well remembered the lines of the poet to 
 the Daisy : 
 
 “ A hundred times by rock or bower 
 Have I derived from thy sweet power 
 Some apprehension, 
 
 
132 
 
 Some steady love, some brief delight, 
 
 Some memory that had taken flight, 
 
 Some chime of fancy wrong or right, 
 
 Or stray invention. 
 
 When, smitten by the morning ray 
 I see thee rise alert and gay, 
 
 Then, cheerful flower ! my spirits play 
 With kindred gladness; 
 
 And when at dusk, by dews opprest, 
 
 Thou smil’st, the image of thy rest 
 Hath often eased my pensive breast 
 Of careful sadness.” 
 
 In the midst of her “ daisy thoughts,” a beautiful 
 Anagallistold her she was the Poor man’s Weather¬ 
 glass, for she always closed her petals when rain 
 was coming; and that no one who knew her needed 
 a watch on fair days, for she opened her flowers at 
 eight minutes past seven in the morning, and closed 
 them at three minutes past two. My name means 
 “ to smile,” said she. “ Ah, I see how easy it is to 
 make you smile, but I can make sick people laugh, if 
 they will but take the medicine I yield. Little birds 
 
133 
 
 love ray seeds, but they might be happy without 
 them where 
 
 “ The pale Stellaria grows, 
 
 Like Una with her gentle grace, 
 
 Shining out in a shady place.” 
 
 Mary wondered how the Pimpernel, (for that was 
 another of her names,) should ever have heard of 
 Una, whom she very well knew in the beautiful 
 book, for flowers could not read, but she then 
 remembered that flowers had some magic way of 
 knowing what the poets had written about them. 
 She was acquainted with the Chickweed that feeds 
 so many birds, and grows wherever any green thing 
 can grow. She observed that the blossoms of the 
 Pimpernel were blue in the bud, but pink when 
 fully opened, and she remembered to have seen 
 them in the grass that grew near the craggy rocks 
 of the sea-shore. 
 
 Then the Marygolds spoke, and said they opened 
 
134 
 
 at nine in the morning and closed their petals at 
 three in the afternoon. 
 
 When Mary heard that different flowers opened 
 at each hour of the day, she wished she had a 
 Flora’s clock,* it would be so much prettier to say 
 “ half past Marygold,” than “ half past nine.” 
 
 “We love the Sun,” said they, “and turn our 
 eyes to him through all his course. We even im¬ 
 prison his rays, which we pour forth upon the dark 
 night in luminous sparks. And yet we are made 
 an emblem of painful thoughts. We are often 
 wreathed with Poppies and sent to the afflicted, to 
 say, £ I allay your pain.’ I am sorry we represent 
 the pain, and yet I think,” said one Marygold, “ that 
 I had rather be myself than a Poppy. The con¬ 
 serve that is made of our flowers will cure the trem- 
 
 * A Flora’s dial may be planted in the grass, or in a garden, by 
 placing the flowers at the proper points around a large dial-plate. The 
 engraving in this volume may serve as a model for such a dial. 
 
135 
 
 bling of the heart and the dimness of the eyes, so 
 that we can do some good, if we cannot lull the 
 troubled mind to repose, as Poppies can. In Italy 
 we are called ‘ Flor d’ogni mese,’ (flower of every 
 month;) we are the ‘ Golden Flower’ of Peru, and 
 the ‘ Sun-Flower’ of India. In Egypt our leaves 
 are pierced with holes ; we grow there beside the 
 Hawthorn, on the shore of the Red Sea.” 
 
 But now the Lily of Solomon, the glorious Ama¬ 
 ryllis, so filled the air with her crimson sheen, that 
 all other flowers stood paled by her side. A drop 
 of diamond brightness sparkled in the stigma that 
 protruded from her tube, reflecting the splendid 
 color of her petals. Mary expected to see it fall to 
 the ground ; but the brilliant Lily said it never fell, 
 nor would it sink back to its cell till the precious 
 pollen had fertilized it; but when the Sun began-to 
 decline toward the horizon, she should call back 
 
136 
 
 these silent waters laden with treasure, and reserve 
 them till another day, when they would go forth 
 again to sparkle awhile in the sun, and to carry new 
 existence to the germ of life below. 
 
 “ That sorrowing Myrtle,” she added, “ cannot 
 talk to you now. In her native clime she grows 
 hundreds of feet high, but she is not happy even 
 in this sheltered place, for she is without her 
 companion who bears the life-giving dust.* Her 
 stigmas still look green and vigorous, and she 
 spends day after day in vain expectation that some 
 friendly gale will waft it from other gardens ; but 
 thus she has lived many summers. It is sad to see 
 how long after the usual season she waits for what 
 will perhaps never come ; but she says, ‘ while there 
 is life, there is hope.’ Her stigmas even grow to 
 
 * The Myrtle is of the Dicecia class. The fertile flowers are 
 upon one plant, the barren ones upon another, and the germ is not 
 fertilized when they are far separated. 
 
137 
 
 their usual size ] the substance of the seed that is 
 to enclose the life-giving principle is there, the 
 cotyledons that are to come forth to nourish it when 
 it first rises from the ground, and even the envelope 
 which is provided to wrap them all together; but 
 alas ! after she has done all her part, the embryo 
 will be wanting. Remember, little girl, never to 
 separate the families of flowers that were born to 
 live together. Little do the race of men know, 
 when they pluck myrtle sprigs to give to their 
 friends as emblems of their constant affection, be¬ 
 cause its leaves are ever-green, what a faithful 
 heart the flower itself bears. Do not approach 
 h er .—she cannot talk to you—she is listening for 
 the sound of some butterfly s wing that may per¬ 
 chance bring happy tidings of the long desiied fa¬ 
 rina. 
 
 “ The homes of the Amaryllidie, if you wish to 
 
138 
 
 know any thing more about us, are in all regions of 
 the earth, from the cold climes of Siberia to the 
 very tropics, where we grow in sunny islands under 
 skies that it is happiness enough to look upon. We 
 are named from a beautiful maiden whom a poet sang 
 about.” 
 
 A “ Painted Lady” with wings of brown, carmine 
 and black, alighted upon the edge of the flower, 
 which stopped talking to Mary that it might hold 
 a little discourse in the butterfly language. They 
 seemed to be speaking of a tortoise-shell beetle 
 that stood under a tall handsome thistle close by, 
 and had made a curious little umbrella of earth 
 which he supported with his forked tail. It was 
 ominous of a shower, they seemed to think, and 
 they had no sooner said the words than a loud clap 
 of thunder, followed by a deluge of rain, proved that 
 the little beetle had discovered by his quick instinct 
 
139 
 
 the coming flood, which arrived too suddenly for the 
 rest of the party to protect themselves against it. 
 Mary was wet through by the time she had gained 
 the piazza ; the “ Painted Lady” was dashed to the 
 ground, her beautiful wings soiled and broken ; and 
 before the Amaryllis could close her petals over the 
 stigma, the clear drop that stood ready for the pol¬ 
 len was washed away, and the cold rain penetrated 
 to the very germ. When the shower had past, she 
 slowly opened the folds of her garment again, but 
 on that day she mourned, with many other flowers, 
 the lost chance of ripening any seed. The butter¬ 
 fly’s wings could not be mended by the sun, though 
 it shone more brilliantly than ever upon the glitter¬ 
 ing rain-drops. The beetle alone was uninjured by 
 the tempest; for the glutinous substance with which 
 he joined together the particles of earth prevented 
 their being soaked through, and the stiff leaves of 
 
140 
 
 the thistle that protected him, withstood the beating 
 of the rain. 
 
 When Mary returned to the garden at sunset, she 
 observed that the Gladiolus Versicolor, the African 
 Iris from the Cape of Good Hope, who had worn a 
 brown dress in the morning, had quite changed her 
 color, and was of a bright blue. As she stood 
 gazing in wonder at this spectacle, the flower spoke 
 to her asking mind, and smilingly said, “ Ah ! you 
 have now found out my secret. I saw you this 
 morning hunting about for the blue flower. Every 
 night I put on my brown garb, but before the day is 
 done, my father, the Sun, again clothes me in this 
 sweet color which you love so dearly. If you watch 
 me carefully through the day, you will see that it is 
 not a sudden change. Like all other things in this 
 great world, I improve by degrees. Many flowers 
 change their hues in the course of their lives, but I 
 
141 
 
 
 believe I am the only one so happy as to recover by 
 day the splendors I lose at night.” 
 
 “Remember, my child,” said the little girl’s 
 mother, when Mary told her this wonderful flower- 
 story, “that when the shadows of temptation ob¬ 
 scure your soul, the voice of your conscience, if 
 you will listen to it, will as surely bring back the 
 thoughts of goodness, as the sun restores the bright 
 blue color to the flower after the shades of night 
 have dimmed it.” 
 
JUNE,—THE ROSES. 
 
 Is not June another word for Roses, “Aurora’s 
 sprights ?” Now all the air was perfume ;—light 
 itself was rose-colored ;—birds and butterflies were 
 happiest. The dragon-flies of all hues left the 
 flowers in the fields to come to the garden, for 
 even the roses of the meadow could not compare 
 with the roses of the garden, in size, or hue, or per¬ 
 fume. So luxuriantly did they grow, that their very 
 stamens turned into petals. 
 
 Roses of all climates were there, and they seemed 
 to be as happy together, as the Tulips could have 
 
144 
 
 been when they met in the court of the Persian king. 
 Indeed, they must have been far happier, for there 
 is no rivalry among the Roses ; they are all sweet¬ 
 ness and love. It is true they have prickles, but 
 their wound is not poisonous ; they only give a gen¬ 
 tle warning that such delicate beings must not be 
 seized upon too rudely, else their “blooming honors” 
 will fall to the ground. 
 
 The Damask Roses, originally denizens of a fair 
 city in the East,,* but now acclimated in every land, 
 stood in a hedge round a clear little lake in the mid¬ 
 dle of the garden. The gold-fishes had come up to 
 sun themselves in the morning ray, and were glan¬ 
 cing to and fro amid the reflections of their lovely 
 protectors. 
 
 Roses of Kashmire, the most brilliant and fra¬ 
 grant of the Roses of the East, stood by themselves 
 
 * Damascus. 
 
145 
 
 higher up, in classic vases ; and round the pedestals 
 on which the vases stood, were planted the pale 
 clustering roses of the tropics. The Multiflora 
 threw its festoons of flowers over a dark rock that 
 stood on the highest terrace of the garden, and the 
 Eglantine mingled hers with the early honeysuckles 
 that grew over the arbor. The climbing Rose of 
 the Lakes shot up to the top of the wall, and blended 
 her crimson flowers with the yellow cups that hung 
 from all the branches of the Tulip Tree. The White 
 Rose of Bengal grew among the Nasturtiums, “ cress 
 of the fountain.” The Elysian, with her hundred 
 petals, the Blush and the Celestial, clustered to¬ 
 gether in kindred thought. The Moss Rose and 
 
 r 
 
 the Rose of the World, remembered together their 
 sunny France, and a thousand nameless varieties 
 adorned the garden from terrace to lake. 
 
 How could Mary ever listen to them all ? for all 
 to 
 
146 
 
 murmured forth their welcome and vied with each 
 other to attract her attention. 
 
 As she stood bewildered with delight, the En¬ 
 fant de France” called to her. “ Have you come to 
 be crowned?” said the lovely flower. “ In my na¬ 
 tive land, a holy man once said, the most amiable, 
 modest, discreet maiden of the village, should wear 
 a crown of Roses, when we held our annual festival. 
 If you will go to Salency, you will see them as¬ 
 sembled there to-day, and happy she who gains the 
 crown, for she must be the most beloved. Ah! 
 well I remember the sweet Rosiere that watered 
 my roots every day, and picked off all the insects 
 that destroyed my buds. Will you not be my Ro¬ 
 siere ?” 
 
 Before Mary could answer, a Damask Rose spoke 
 from the hedge. “ Can you keep a secret, little 
 girl ?” she said. “ If you can, I should like to be 
 
147 
 
 worn in your bosom ; for in my beautiful Greece, I 
 was the emblem of secrecy and truth. Cupid—do 
 you know Cupid ? he was Love itself. Cupid pre¬ 
 sented me to Harpocrates, the god of Silence, whose 
 sculptured form stood ever with his finger on his 
 lips, and when my flowers were suspended over 
 the social board, all the guests spoke, in the confi¬ 
 dence that nothing they said should be repeated 
 elsewhere. This was talking “under the rose.” 
 Golden semblances of us were presented to kings ; 
 the rose-like form expressed, “ may your body live 
 forever !” the golden material, “ may your soul be 
 immortal!” And the bravest warriors of Rome en¬ 
 graved us on their shields, for their fame was to live 
 long after their mortal frames had crumbled to the 
 dust; as our fragrance lingers round all it has 
 touched, when every trace of our forms has faded 
 from the eye.” 
 
148 
 
 “ From my flowers,” said the White Rose of 
 Egypt, “ is made more rose-water than from all the 
 Roses in the world beside. If you will go to my 
 country, you shall be sprinkled with it whenever 
 you enter the houses of men. Ships are laden with 
 it from those shores, for all parts of the world.” 
 
 “ And from me,” said Centifolia, “ is distilled the 
 attar of rose that fills the little bottle which is sus¬ 
 pended from your neck. But it took many more 
 roses than stand round this lake to fill it—so keep 
 it very choice.”* 
 
 “ I,” said the Black Hellebore, “ can bring back 
 the wandering mind, and calm the ravings of frenzy. 
 If you know any whose intellect has fallen from its 
 throne, send them to me and I will cure them.” 
 
 A Blush Rose said she was much happier here 
 than in the city where she last grew, for it was diffi- 
 
 * Two hundred pounds of roses will not make half an ounce of attar. 
 
149 
 
 cult for Roses to grow where the air was filled with 
 smoke. “But even here,” she added, “ I have my 
 troubles. I wish the lady-birds would come and 
 eat up these insects.” At that moment a lady¬ 
 bird, with a dark violet-colored head, that shone like 
 a ruby, crawled up the stem of the Rose-tree. The 
 flower was thankful to see her, but the lady-bird 
 did not stop to catch the insects that troubled the 
 Rose, but jumped from one branch to another as if 
 in pursuit of something. Mary could not help think¬ 
 ing she was chasing a pretty yellow butterfly that was 
 flying about among the Roses, though what she could 
 want of her it was difficult to imagine,—when all 
 at once the little creature, who was very large and 
 strong, however, for a lady-bird, jumped upon the 
 back of the unsuspecting butterfly, and bore her 
 away into the air.”* 
 
 * This is a fact. 
 
150 
 
 Mary and the Roses gazed at this spectacle in 
 silent amazement, but the lady-bird kept fast hold 
 of her struggling prey, and carried it to her nest; 
 and when the butterfly’s wings were once broken, 
 so that she could not fly, it would be easy for a 
 company of lady-birds to tear her to pieces. The 
 little girl thought she should never love lady-birds 
 again, or say to them any more, “ Lady-bird, lady¬ 
 bird, fly away home.” 
 
 Soon the Rose went on to recount her sorrows. 
 “I have one enemy,” she said, “of a hundred and fifty 
 different species. It is the ugly saw-fly you see 
 creeping about. I shudder at its very touch ; it has 
 pierced holes in all my twigs, and laid its eggs in 
 each one. My buds, my beautiful buds, are all 
 withering, and even if a few should open to the sun, 
 they will look sickly and blighted. The froth-frog- 
 hopper, too, injures my beauty, and that of many 
 
151 
 
 other Roses ; and the caterpillars eat the underside 
 of my leaves and the bark of my stems. When the 
 woodpeckers come, they devour the caterpillars ; 
 but they are not always here. That emerald-fly 
 comes oftener than I like to see him, though he is 
 so brilliant—but there is a chirping sparrow who 
 will soon catch him ; and that ruby-throated hum¬ 
 ming-bird will build her nest near us, I think, for 
 she has been flying about me for several days. She 
 will soon have occasion to catch those naughty bugs 
 for her young ones.” 
 
 Thus lamented the Blush Rose her many griefs. 
 The fairest beauty is soonest marred. The deli¬ 
 cacy of this fair Rose’s skin was like a tender con¬ 
 science, aware even of the slightest taint. 
 
 Mary’s attention was now caught by a leaf-cut- 
 ting bee, who was making holes in the green 
 leaves of a Cinnamon-rose. She watched her 
 
152 
 
 motions, and saw her come again and again, and 
 with her little sharp instrument, finer and sharper 
 than any knife that could be made with hands, 
 cut parts of perfect circles from the leaves, till each 
 one had lost a portion of its substance to fur¬ 
 nish the industrious little creature with materials 
 for its nest. 
 
 “ How doth the little busy bee 
 Improve each shining hour,”— 
 
 thought Mary. 
 
 And now a fragrance sweeter than all she had 
 ever breathed, drew her towards a little fountain 
 that gushed from a natural rock, and poured its 
 waters into the lake. Trailing vines ran over this 
 moss-covered rock, at the foot of which stood many 
 choice plants in marble vases. 
 
 It was the Tea-Rose that beckoned Mary on. 
 The graceful, pendent flower, with a cheek “ like 
 the convolution of a smooth-lipped shell” called her 
 
153 
 
 to say, that in this cold country she could not grow 
 so tall or so vigorous as in the sunny south. “We 
 wither there sooner than here, and yet I had rather 
 live there,” she sighed, “ for what is life worth under 
 foreign skies and in cold winds ? I believe all I gain 
 by the change is in fragrance. The sun does not 
 love me so well here—he does not call forth all my 
 sweets, and they dwell within my folds, to cheer 
 such loving beings as you are.” And Mary could 
 not be sorry that the sun left such perfumes to the 
 earth. 
 
 “ Do not fear to gather my flowers, sweet one,” 
 said Pendulina, rose of the hanging seed, “for I have 
 no thorns.” 
 
 The Cherokee Rose begged Mary to come and 
 hear her story. 
 
 “ It is not about myself,” she said, “ but I have 
 heard that the kind friends who nourished my youth 
 
154 
 
 are driven from their pleasant homes far beyond the 
 great river that pours down from the lakes of the 
 north. I know how they loved the hunting-grounds 
 and the graves of their fathers,—and why are they 
 driven away ? A chieftain of my country gave me 
 to Washington, when he talked with him in the 
 great council of his tribe. That good falher of his 
 red and white children told them, that their lands 
 should never be taken from them. Where is he 
 gone ? Why does he not come back to take care 
 of his oppressed children ? They loved him, and 
 they wished to live in peace with their white breth¬ 
 ren, and were grateful to them for the useful arts 
 they had taught them, and for the knowledge they 
 had imparted to them. I have often heard them 
 speak of the Being that made them and wished them 
 to be good and happy. It was not the Sun, but a 
 Heavenly Father, the white men said, who was 
 
155 
 
 Father to the Indians too. Will that good God be 
 pleased to have his children quarrel with one an¬ 
 other ?” 
 
 At these words the eloquent Rose fell, scattered 
 to the ground. Her own earnestness had snapped 
 the delicate chords of life—but the tree bore many- 
 other buds that would open, to echo the sorrow of 
 their heart-broken sister. 
 
Loosestrife. Lily. Buttercup. Daisy. Butterfly Weed. 
 
THE FLOWERS OF JULY. 
 
 In a cool day, toward the last of July, Mary 
 walked through the pine woods and oak openings 
 with her father and mother. The wild-roses still 
 blossomed in the hedges, and many new summer 
 flowers spoke their praises and their thanks to the 
 Sun, and welcomed the little girl to their woodland 
 retreats. 
 
 Dog days had come ; but a cool west wind had 
 this day cleared the atmosphere of sultry vapors. 
 Only white clouds floated far up in the blue, their 
 shadows chasing each other over the woods mead- 
 
158 
 
 ows, and hills, like happy children sporting on the 
 grass, making the bright sunshine more bright when 
 they passed from before the “ king of day.” 
 
 The yellow Lysimachias that grow in so many 
 different ways among their pretty green leaves,— 
 sometimes hanging from their peduncles in graceful 
 clusters,—sometimes rising from the axils of the 
 leaves on slender foot-stalks, and sometimes clus¬ 
 tering round long spike-like branches, looked cheer¬ 
 fully upon her as she passed, and said they could 
 make the restive oxen quiet and mind their plough¬ 
 ing. 
 
 The social Chequer-berries that carpeted the 
 earth under the clumps of oak-trees, looked as pur¬ 
 ple as they could, when they told her that by and 
 by they should have plenty of red berries for her, 
 and that quite early in the spring their tender green 
 leaves would taste very good. They said they sup- 
 
159 
 
 posed she oft.en lasted their flavor in the candy she 
 bought at the shop in the village, for the old woman 
 that made it, came every spring for a fresh supply 
 of leaves. Mary observed that the Chequer-berry 
 had two calyxes and two corollas on every germ, 
 which was, she thought, quite a new thing among 
 flowers. The Chequer-berry told her she believed 
 it was thought quite remarkable that it took two 
 flowers to make one berry, and she seemed much 
 pleased to be thought remarkable ; but Mary liked 
 her better for her sweet fragrance and taste, and her 
 pretty flowers, than for being different from others, 
 which was only curious, and otherwise of very little 
 consequence. 
 
 Mary did not care to hear the story of the woolly¬ 
 leaved Mulleins. They did not look delicate enough 
 to please her, and had formerly made her feel very 
 uncomfortable when Charley rubbed the leaves upon 
 
160 
 
 her cheek “ to make her rosy,” as he said. But 
 one of them spoke as she passed, to say that she 
 had a very handsome cousin who often bore on one 
 spike a hundred golden-hued flowers. She told her, 
 too, that her leaves cured many pains, and that their 
 perfume would drive away the troublesome cock¬ 
 roaches that sometimes ate up the carpets and flan¬ 
 nels in her mother’s house. 
 
 Mary was sorry she had been so hasty as to dis¬ 
 like the Mullein because she was not handsome, or 
 even because she pricked her. She was learning 
 every day that many things are to be valued for 
 their good qualities, if not for beauty’s sake, and 
 that there is another kind of beauty beside that 
 which meets the eye. 
 
 The long white bells of the Datura Stramonium 
 were open. Mary thought these very handsome, 
 and was startled to hear her mother say, “ do not 
 
Nasturtium. Stramonium. Dogwood. Meadow Cowslip. Hawthorn, 
 
161 
 
 put any part of that plant to your mouth, my child, 
 for it is very poisonous.” The Stramonium said 
 this was true, to be sure, but for medicine she was 
 useful. Her name, she confessed, meant mad ap¬ 
 ple, because her fruit, when eaten carelessly, pro¬ 
 duced terrible effects upon the brain. Mary thought 
 again that she must not judge by appearances. 
 
 Close by the Stramonium stood a tall Mustard 
 Plant covered with yellow flowers. It was not very 
 pretty, but the Mustard Plant knew her seeds were 
 good to eat, and she nodded very familiarly at Mary, 
 as much as to say, “ you and I know each other 
 very well. I can peep at you every day out of the 
 mustard pot at dinner time.” 
 
 The pretty pink-white bells of the Apocynum 
 were open too. They told Mary they were some¬ 
 times called Dog’s bane, because dogs were poi¬ 
 soned by them, but that the Indians were not afraid 
 11 
 
162 
 
 of them, and from the stalks of one of their species 
 
 could make twine, bags, fishing nets, and a sort' of 
 
 linen. A poor little fly who peeped into one of the 
 
 bells as they were talking, was caught fast by the 
 
 legs between the stiff filaments of the stamens which 
 
 had sprung open and closed again at his touch, and 
 
 Mary was obliged to pull the flower all to pieces 
 
 before she could release the little captive. It was 
 
 well she stood near just at that moment, for his 
 
 struggles would soon have ended his life, or he 
 
 would have left his delicate little limbs behind him. 
 
 Mary had heard that when flies lose their legs others 
 
 will grow out, but she was not sure it was true ; 
 
 and when she saw the brilliant colors of the orange- 
 
 colored Butterflv-weed filled with hundreds of these 
 «/ 
 
 unfortunate prisoners, she longed to set them all free. 
 Most of them, however, were dead. One of these 
 Asclepiases said, as if wishing to excuse herself. 
 
163 
 
 that the dead bodies of the flies gave nourishment 
 to the plant. “ In Canada,” she continued, “ our 
 flowers are made into sugar. The Frenchmen 
 gather us in the early morning before the dew is 
 dried by the sun, and from our seeds they take the 
 cotton to make soft sleeping places at night. We 
 are sometimes called Swallow-wort, because our 
 seeds look like flying swallows. And can you tell 
 me, little girl, why it is worse for us to catch flies 
 than for men to shoot the merry swallows ? They 
 will all go away next month, and I wish they could 
 be allowed to fly about in peace and bid us good 
 bye quietly. I see that you do not like us very 
 well, but I can forgive your kind heart, for I have 
 some sweetness in mine ; and that you may not be 
 poisoned by any of the flowers you will find this 
 warm month, I will tell you that you may generally 
 know us by our five stamens and umbelled flower- 
 
164 
 
 stalks. That Henbane which you see under the 
 hill, is not an umbellate flower, but it also has five 
 stamens. The pigs run from the farm-houses when 
 they can break loose, to find its berries, which they 
 love, but they do not often have a chance, though 
 they can eat them with safety. One dark beetle 
 feeds upon it, and the goats and sheep sometimes 
 nibble it a little ; but I advise you not to touch it, 
 though it may do you good whenever you have a 
 cough, if you take a very little at a time. There 
 is the ‘ Deadly Night Shade’ too. Its five anthers 
 adhere together in a cone-like form, and its deep 
 corolla might attract you, but its berries are very 
 poisonous. One of its sisters is called Bitter-sweet, 
 because when first, tasted it is bitter, and then sweet. 
 The Potatoe and the Tomato, as well as the Da¬ 
 tura, are of the same family. All these Solanums 
 are somewhat poisonous, and the fruit of the Pota- 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 '' 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Arum Henbane. Hemlock Mountain Laurel. 
 
165 
 
 toe is very much so. The part you eat is the tu¬ 
 bers that grow on subterraneous branches. 
 
 “ That deep pink Kalmia is the Lamb-kill, but it 
 will not hurt you. I advise you to look at it, for 
 just at this season the little filaments which lie back 
 in the pouches of the corolla, spring suddenly from 
 their hiding places and dash the pollen upon the 
 stigma. One use men make of this plant, is to pour 
 the liquid they can extract from it upon the head of 
 the rattle-snake, which kills him immediately. I 
 believe the bite of this snake is very poisonous to 
 man ; but he is a beautiful creature. I like to see 
 him winding through the grass. Oh, you need not 
 be afraid ; there are none in the neighborhood now. 
 
 “ That tall white umbel, the plant with those deli - 4 
 cately pinnated leaves, is the Hemlock. I presume 
 you know it, for it grows every where. It is very 
 useful to man as a medicine, and seems to offer 
 
166 
 
 itself to him every where ready for use ; for the 
 bruised leaves bound on the head or any other 
 aching part, will produce relief; but take care not 
 to eat its bulbs, for they have often killed little chil¬ 
 dren who are attracted by their nut-like appearance 
 and their sweetness. This Cicuta is famous lor its 
 having composed the beverage which a wise phi¬ 
 losopher in ancient times was ordered to drink, 
 when he w r as condemned to death by bad men, foi 
 trying to teach truth. Did you ever hear of So¬ 
 crates, Mary ?” Mary had not, but she thought she 
 
 should ask her mother to tell her that strange story. 
 
 » 
 
 “ The Hemlock only poisons men and cows,” said 
 Asclepias ; “ in spring the cattle are often hurt by 
 it, but as the season advances, its fragrance is so 
 strong that they soon learn to avoid it.” 
 
 Mary did not approach any of these plants. 
 There was something in these fearful powers of 
 
167 
 
 nature that troubled her. She was grateful to the 
 Butterfly-weed for warning her against danger, and 
 telling her the disagreeable truths it was necessary 
 for her to know. It would have seemed to her as if 
 she were surrounded by evil spirits, if she had not 
 remembered that God must have a good reason for 
 making every thing, even if she could not under¬ 
 stand it. 
 
 She was relieved to see her favorite Blue-eyed 
 Grass peeping at her from between the long blades. 
 “I am afraid you will forget your humble friends the 
 Grasses,” said the pretty little bright eye, “ so I 
 hoped you would spy me out that I might remind 
 you of us.” If all Grasses were as pretty as you 
 are, thought Mary, there would be no danger of my 
 forgetting them ; but as she stooped to look at the 
 little speaker, she observed that what she had 
 always called the common Grasses, to distinguish 
 
168 
 
 them from her favorites, bore very small but very 
 pretty flowers. She wondered she never had ob¬ 
 served them before, but Mary had yet to learn that 
 the most common things, which are generally the 
 most valuable, are often thought unworthy of no¬ 
 tice, while they may in reality be quite as curiously 
 and wonderfully made as the most rare and showy. 
 Mary little knew that the air which she breathed 
 every moment was a real thing, as truly as the 
 houses and trees that stood encircled by it, and that 
 it was made up of several things which could all be 
 separated by the ingenuity of man. She thought 
 the air was nothing. She was astonished indeed 
 when she was told that if the pressure of the out¬ 
 ward air was taken away, that which is imprisoned 
 within her would burst forth and tear her body into 
 ten thousand pieces. She began to think there was 
 no end to wonders ; and as long as she lived and 
 
169 
 
 the more she knew, the more this feeling of her 
 childish years increased, for there were more won¬ 
 ders in God’s world than she could ever learn. She 
 was very much surprised when the Blue-eyed Grass 
 went on to tell her that corn, wheat, rye, and oats 
 were all Grasses ; that the sugar-cane which grows 
 in hot climates, and from which that sweet mouth¬ 
 ful that children love is made, was also one of the 
 grass family ; and still more did she wonder, when 
 she spoke of a giant Grass that grows sixty feet into 
 the air, and forms with its waving plumes of leaves, 
 an impenetrable and beautiful shade in those lands 
 where the heat of the sun is so oppressive. And 
 not only for its beauty and its shade is the Bamboo 
 valued. Houses, furniture, bridges, masts of 
 ships, even paper is made of its tubular stems ; 
 and its outer coat is composed of a substance which 
 can neither be destroyed by fire, or acids, but may 
 
170 
 
 be made into glass as permanent as that made of 
 sand. 
 
 Mary passed on and ascended another of the 
 many hillocks that rose in her path, and then she 
 shouted for joy, and away she ran to the brook that 
 flowed through the meadows. What did she see? for 
 a brook was nothing new to her. At home she had 
 a pretty brook, . as pretty as any that ever flowed, 
 and bordered with flowers too ; but this one w r as 
 fringed with the scarlet spikes of the gorgeous Car¬ 
 dinal flower, which to Mary Avas all glorious. There 
 they stood, some on the brink as if they were just 
 going to step in, and others already in the middle of 
 the brook, as if they Avere about to sail merrily 
 away with the little gliding Avaves, to the ocean, or 
 the great river. Mary’s eyes were dazzled with the 
 glory of their bright colors, flashing in the sunshine, 
 
Dog’s Tooth Violet. Dog’s Bane. Cardinal Flower. 
 
171 
 
 and she almost fell into the brook as she tried to 
 gather some of them to carry home. 
 
 “ Do not be afraid, pretty flower,” she said, “ I 
 will not hurt you ; but I wish to take you home and 
 plant you in my brook, where I can see you all the 
 time.” 
 
 “ Is it as pleasant a brook as this ?” said a trem¬ 
 bling Cardinal that Mary was already pulling from 
 its watery bed. “ Is there a pine wood close by, 
 full of birds and squirrels ?” 
 
 “ There is no pine wood by my brook,” said 
 Mary, “ but a great many elms and willows, and 
 plenty of butterflies and squirrels, and little fishes 
 that play all day long ; and the sun shines there and 
 every where.” 
 
 “ Then I will go with you,” said the flower, “ but 
 pull my root up gently, for my stalk is very brittle 
 and will easily break if you are not careful.” 
 
172 
 
 Mary pulled gently, and the earth was so wet that 
 it came up easily. She gathered a few more, and 
 then ran along by the side of the brook to look at 
 the thousand others that rejoiced in the light, and 
 listened to the sweet hum of the waters. What a 
 spectacle ! Mary had never seen its like, and she 
 never forgot its glory. Years after, when she grew 
 up and lived within the brick walls of a city, and 
 was not so happy as now, the vision of that spark¬ 
 ling brook and its thousand splendid flowers, would 
 make her forget her sorrows for a time, and be again 
 a happy child, wandering in the gardens of nature, 
 listening to its voice, and learning wisdom and grati¬ 
 tude. 
 
 Not even when the Lobelias in her hand told her 
 they were poisonous, (perhaps they wished to be 
 released and thought to frighten her,) was the spell, 
 that enchanted her broken. She had forgotten that 
 
173 
 
 there was any thing in the world, but beauty and 
 goodness. 
 
 The thunder began to roll from the clouds that 
 had gathered into a deep mass, and threatened 
 every moment to overspread the sky and descend 
 in showers ; the bright lightning leaped up in the 
 horizon, and Mary and her parents sought shelter in 
 a farm-house that now appeared in sight. But 
 Mary was not afraid. She knew who made the 
 world, and guided the thunder and lightning, and 
 was more powerful than they, which were his min¬ 
 isters to do good as truly as the gentle flowers that 
 made no noise. 
 
 As soon as the rain ceased, the farmer took the 
 walking party home in his wagon; for the grass 
 was wet, and it was a long way home by the road. 
 The clouds still hung heavy with their burden, and 
 all the flowers had closed their petals or bowed their 
 
174 
 
 corollas under the leaves, so that it seemed to Mary, 
 as she rode along, that they had all run away to 
 hide themselves from the shower. 
 
AUGUST. 
 
 As the little flower-lover walked through the 
 meadows, in the sultry month of August, she saw 
 that this was indeed “ the spring month of the au¬ 
 tumnal flowers,” for there were more buds than 
 blossoms, though the warmth of the sun had won 
 many forth before their usual season. Every thing 
 looked fresh and promising, as if preparing for the 
 brilliant colors of autumn. 
 
 The Hypericums told her how the bees loved 
 their nectar ; and Mary saw the busy little creatures 
 flit from one to the other, and fly away laden with 
 
honey and pollen. She had often tasted their honey, 
 and she knew they made bee-bread for their young 
 of the pollen. Of all the little insects she knew, 
 none seemed so wise to Mary as the bees. She had 
 heard how industrious they were from morning till 
 night; she had seen how ingeniously they made their 
 cells and stored their golden honey; and then how 
 wonderful it was, she thought, that they should 
 always know the way home, wherever they flew. 
 Miles and miles away from their home, however 
 zigzag had been their flight, when ready to return 
 they rise high in the air, and then wing their uner¬ 
 ring way straight to the hive that is their home. It 
 must be God who teaches them the way, thought the 
 little girl, and if I am lost will he not take care of 
 me too ? 
 
 The pink Hypericum told Mary she might easily 
 know the flowers of her name and family, by the 
 
177 
 
 many tufts of stamens that stood together in her 
 midst; for no other wild flower in America possessed 
 such a growth. The pellucid dots upon her leaves, 
 too, distinguished her from many other flowers. 
 “ And the oil that is contained in these tiny specks 
 will turn the oil in your lamps to a bright purple 
 color; and my leaves, if dried and steeped in water, 
 will give a bright yellow tint to your winter gowns,” 
 said the sociable little flower. “ One of my names 
 was given me in honor of a good man named St 
 John,” she went on to say, “ for on his birth day 
 men used to gather our flowers, and hang them in 
 the windows, to keep off thunder storms. But I 
 suppose men are wiser now, for we are no longer 
 used to charm away thunder. Only the bees and 
 the children love us now.” 
 
 The pink and red Spiraeas raised their pretty heads 
 
 among the bushes. The leaves of some of these 
 12 
 
178 
 
 were covered with down, and they said they could 
 cure many pains. They were named Tomentosa. 
 Their flowers were almost red, and they said cords 
 could be made from the strong fibres of their stalks. 
 
 The odd-looking, but not ungraceful Prenanthes, 
 was just beginning to unfold her dark pendulous 
 flowers. “ In Carolina,” she said, “we are called the 
 Lion’s foot; and the unfortunate black men who dig 
 the ground, and who think they can find in the green 
 nature, which is their only friend, the remedy for all 
 ills that beset them, bruise my leaves, and boil my 
 juices with milk, to cure the cruel bite of the rattle¬ 
 snake.” 
 
 The elegant Clethra had also opened a few of the 
 sweet-scented flowers of her spike. Her perfume 
 reminded Mary of the orange-flowers in the green¬ 
 house. She rose above all the flowers of the hedge 
 except those of the Clematis, which had climbed all 
 
179 
 
 the trees in the neighborhood and began already to 
 hang out its wreaths of white flowers. The very 
 name of Clematis means a tendril, and it loves to 
 lend its own grace and beauty to every thing around. 
 It told Mary its germs and seeds grew on a sister 
 plant on the other side of the meadow, and that a 
 little gnat carried the pollen when it was ready, to 
 scatter it over the stigmas there. 
 
 Mary saw that where the Clematis vines found no 
 supporting trees, they clung together and rose in a 
 beautiful pyramid toward the sky, as if they would 
 catch hold of the very clouds, to help them rise. 
 
 “We are like many trees in one thing,” said the 
 pretty Virgin’s-bower, for this is one of the names of 
 the Clematis, our stamens and pistils fjrow on 
 different plants. The wind often blows the pollen 
 of a tree to the stigmas on its sister plant, and I 
 believe the winds are very faithful messengers, but 
 
180 
 
 ray little gnat does my errands very well. You 
 sometimes see me in cities, growing upon the sides 
 of houses, but I prefer stone walls very much. 
 People generally separate me from my friend Gly¬ 
 cine, too, which I do not like. Do you see how 
 lovingly our vines entwine ? and we set off each 
 other’s beauty finely. Her lance-shaped leaves and 
 my deeply lobed ones, present a pleasing contrast. 
 I admire her pea-shaped flowers, and she admires 
 my feathery ones. 
 
 The Glycine said it was very cruel to separate 
 such intimate friends. For her part she wished 
 people would only look at flowers, and not carry 
 one away from all the rest. They were born to 
 live together, where the sun drew them forth from 
 the earth, and when one was gone, the whole hedge 
 lost its harmonious beauty. “They tear us sadly, 
 too,” she said, “ when they rend us from one an- 
 
181 
 
 other, for you see we are almost inseparable. My 
 friend Clematis,” she added, as the latter affection¬ 
 ately wound another tendril round her stalk, “ is 
 always beautiful. After all other flowers have 
 faded, her pretty seed vessels are covered with 
 feathery tufts. The very winds do not blow them 
 all away till the frost comes, and then we are all 
 glad enough to flee back into the bosom of our 
 mother Earth, and stay there till Spring calls us. 
 
 The purple and yellow Gerardias were just open¬ 
 ing their trumpet-shaped mouths. They told Mary 
 they were of the same family as the pretty yellow 
 Calceolarias that grew in the garden. They stood 
 under shady trees, where they love best to grow, 
 like all trumpet-shaped flowers, which catch the 
 sun’s rays in such a narrow compass, that he would 
 wilt them too soon if not sheltered. 
 
 The Catnep, pussy’s favorite plant, told Mary 
 
182 
 
 that if she wished to have her grow in the garden, 
 she must plant the seeds, for if she grew from seeds, 
 pussy would not know her, but if she transplanted 
 the roots, pussy would soon discover her, and would 
 come to tear her down and roll herself m her leaves, 
 and then eat them up. 
 
 “ Perhaps you did not know before, little girl,” 
 said the Catnep, “that many plants change a little 
 every time their seeds are planted. If you should 
 take the seeds of that nice pear you are eating, the 
 tree that would grow would not bear such pears as 
 that, but some of a different kind.” 
 
 Mary wondered if she should ever hear all the 
 stiange and curious things that were to be known. 
 Every day she heard something new and wonderful. 
 
 The Hedysarums had put forth their purple and 
 violet. Mary saw one flower-stalk standing alone 
 as if it had strayed away from home, for not a leaf 
 
183 
 
 was to be seen near it. It spoke and said it was 
 the Nudiflora, and that it always stood at some dis¬ 
 tance from its leaf-stalk. “ I belong to a large fam¬ 
 ily,” it went on to say, “ and as you love to hear of 
 curious things, I will tell you of my cousin Hedysa- 
 rum Gyrans, who lives in India. You have perhaps 
 seen the Mimosa move its leaves at the touch of a 
 fly or a sudden change of wind ; but my cousin Gy¬ 
 rans moves her leaves all the time without being 
 touched by any thing. Sometimes if the sun is 
 very hot indeed, or the wind very violent, she stands 
 still awhile ; but this is very rare. Sometimes she 
 moves only one leaflet at a time, sometimes two, 
 and sometimes all the three that grow together. I 
 wish such a wonder-loving little girl as you are, 
 could see it. It must be a strange sight; I often 
 think of it, and wonder how it can be done, for I 
 can only move my petals a little when I think the 
 
184 
 
 rain may fall into my corolla and wash away the 
 pollen if I do not cover it up. 
 
 “ Another curious plant of our family, and a much 
 more useful one, is the Saint-foin. It will grow 
 where nothing else will, even in very dry and chalky 
 soil, because its long roots penetrate very deeply 
 into the earth where there is always moisture. 
 The roots of Saint-foin will sometimes strike down 
 twenty feet into a quarry of stone. Sheep and cows 
 love to eat its leaves. I am glad I am not an Ono- 
 brychis, as the botanists call these poor cousins of 
 mine, to be penned into fields on purpose to be 
 eaten with grass and clover.” 
 
 A pretty little sweet-smelling Trefoil that grew 
 at the foot of the tall Hedysarum, seemed rather 
 hurt that the society of clovers should not be thought 
 respectable. She said many people gathered her 
 flowers from love of their fragrance, and children 
 
185 
 
 f 
 
 especially liked to hunt among them for four-leaved 
 clovers, which was an omen of good luck when 
 found. She did not remember ever to have seen 
 one herself, but thought there must have been one 
 somewhere in the world, or they would not be 
 looked for so often. She said her name, Trefoil, 
 meant three leaves on one stalk. 
 
 “We like to grow together in a large field,” she 
 said, “ where taller plants do not smother us and 
 push us away. I think Saint-foin is a very good 
 neighbor. She strikes her roots down so straight 
 that they do not interfere with ours, and I suspect 
 she is very willing to live with clovers.” Trefoil 
 looked up at the Hedysarum as she spoke, but 
 the purple flower held her head very stiffly and 
 made no answer, and Mary walked on. 
 
 The heart-shaped leaves and purple spikes of 
 the Pickerel-weed, and the arrow-shaped leaves and 
 
186 
 
 snow-white racemes of the Sagittaria adorned the 
 brooks. The Arrow-head told Mary her bulbs 
 were eaten by the Chinese, and considered very 
 good food. Mary wondered whether the fish, called 
 the pickerel, was acquainted with the flower of that 
 name. She thought perhaps the fish liked to eat 
 its leaves or roots. 
 
 The pearly-headed Everlasting said she was in 
 former times used for cotton, and that her flowers 
 would not wither even after they had been gathered 
 a long time. This reminded Mary of the Rose of 
 Jericho that she saw in the museum, which was 
 not dead, though it had been lying on the shelf a 
 great many years, and looked quite withered, but 
 whenever it was put into a tumbler of water, it 
 moved and expanded as if still a living flower, 
 though its petals were gone. 
 
 She wondered what the life was that seemed to go 
 
187 
 
 away and then come back again. She wondered if 
 it was in the water, or in the flower, or in the ground, 
 or whether God took it away and gave it back again 
 whenever he pleased. She thought it must be 
 something that could never die, for she knew it 
 lived in her little brother when he seemed to be dead 
 and lay still in the cradle, and could not move or 
 smile or kiss her; for her mother told her his soul 
 was living with God then. Yet her mother could 
 not tell her what life was. She only told her never 
 to hurt any thing that seemed to feel its life, for she 
 knew not how much pain she might give. Mary 
 asked her mother if she might not kill the ants 
 when they crawled upon her, and the bees that 
 stung her ; but when she heard what wonderful 
 habitations they make and how hard they work, 
 and what care they take of their young, and what 
 good the ants do, by eating up those things which 
 
188 
 
 would poison the air, and the bees, by making 
 honey, she admired them so much that she thought 
 she never should feel angry with them again, but 
 would drive, them away without destroying them. 
 
 The yellow and red Lilies kindled gorgeously in 
 the light of the sun, whose fervent heat now drove 
 Mary from the fields to the sheltered garden. As 
 she passed through it, the White Lilies arrested 
 her steps. When she looked into the open chalice, 
 whose brilliancy dazzled her sight, and where the 
 scarlet lady-birds lay basking in the sunshine, like 
 coral beads on the white neck of infancy, she won¬ 
 dered it did not wither under such glowing rays as 
 must fall concentrated within it; but the Lily told 
 her that when she rolled back her petals thus, like 
 a turban, these warm rays were reflected in many 
 directions, and did not pour into the center, as in 
 those flowers which remain stationary all the day, 
 
189 
 
 and collect the beams into one focus of intense heat. 
 Sometimes she curved her petals inwards to shelter 
 the precious center from the too scorching fire. 
 
 Mary stood silent and full of awe before the 
 stately, ■ spotless flower, whose purity looked like 
 goodness itself. 
 
 “ Sweet child,” were the Lily’s fragrant words, 
 “ the touch of your little hand would sully my fair 
 robe, and the dark spot would spread till all its 
 whiteness and its elasticity had gone. And within 
 your breast is a flower as fair as this you see. Let 
 it be unstained. Let no blemish mar the purity of 
 your sacred conscience, and then you also can ever 
 gaze upward with undimmed vision. My very 
 name is whiteness ; let yours be innocence, and 
 we will be kindred spirits.” 
 
 The glittering humming birds poised themselves 
 in the air, over the two beautiful beings that were 
 
t 
 
 190 
 
 exchanging their love, and as they murmured among 
 the lily-borders, the sweet flowers sighed for the 
 music of their beloved nightingales, who sing to 
 their sisters all the night long, far off in their own 
 Isles of Japan. 
 
AUTUMN. 
 
 In September, Mary found the earth all gay again 
 with flowers. The Cornel-leaved Aster, that grows 
 in the woods, and with whom she had already made 
 acquaintance, for she blooms earlier, told her one 
 day, that she would see many cousins of hers this 
 month, for this was their gala time. 
 
 And as the little girl rambled through the woods, 
 and by the small lakes and brooks, there they were, 
 true enough, of all colors and sizes, strewing the 
 earth as thickly as the stars strew the sky. 
 
 Under the dark canopy of the trees, in the woods, 
 
192 
 
 were many shaded blue Asters ; some with willow¬ 
 shaped leaves, and others with leaves that clasp 
 quite round the stem. The little purple-white As¬ 
 ter was also there, and large snowy ones with sharp 
 pointed leaves. Others grew all together in a flat 
 head, like a cluster of white stars in the milky way. 
 
 By the side of a lake stood white Asters that grow 
 on an umbelled flower-stalk ; and single purple ones 
 with smooth shining leaves. 
 
 The tall, dark purple Asters of New England, 
 grew on long spikes by the road-side, and on the 
 dry hills, with blue-flowered ones that contrasted 
 oddly with their red and hairy stems. 
 
 Many others, too numerous to mention, or even 
 to have names, sprinkled the grass and the thickets. 
 Their star-like forms attracted the eye in every di¬ 
 rection, and the little cornel-leafed beauty said, that 
 
193 
 
 in England they continued to bloom till December, 
 where they are called “ Christmas Daisies.” 
 
 The yellow and white, and sweet-scented Golden 
 Rods, vied with them in number and variety. They 
 told of the oil that is secreted in the transparent cells 
 of their leaves, and how by distillation it may be 
 extracted for the good of man. 
 
 The Autumnal Hawk-weed, “ poor Robin’s plan¬ 
 tain,” as the country people call it, popped up its 
 sociable face wherever the green grass grew, like 
 the Dandelion of the spring and summer months. 
 It said its stem was tubular like that flower, and 
 that it bore flying seeds. Mary had heard that birds 
 rubbed their eyes with its leaves to make them shine 
 brighter and see better; but she thought it almost 
 too droll to believe, particularly as the flower said 
 nothing about it. 
 
 The blue Succory, star-like in its form, like so 
 13 
 
194 
 
 many of its companions, said she was good to mix 
 with coffee ; that the French people, who know so 
 well what is good to eat, always put her into theirs, 
 which is the reason French coffee is so celebra¬ 
 ted all over the world; and that in Egypt, men 
 used her a great deal for food. The Succory had 
 not a very pleasant odor, hut such a beautiful color, 
 that Mary thought she could forgive her bad breath 
 for her blue eyes. 
 
 The numerous family of Polygonums, rose-col¬ 
 ored, purple and white, still appeared above the 
 ground, in many places. One said her name was 
 the Water-pepper, because her leaves and stem 
 taste so sharp. The Knot-grass, with little white 
 flowers in the axil of her leaves, peeped up between 
 the stones, and said she was willing to grow in the 
 very streets, if her friends, the stones, were only 
 there, lying close together. One who lived in the 
 
195 
 
 VQfy edge of the pond, said she liked to be wherever 
 there was water j and she did not mind if it was not 
 very clean ; it was all the same to her. She was 
 named the Amphibious Polygonum, because she 
 could live in the water or out of it, if it only were 
 pretty near, so that she could feel its moisture. 
 The floating Polygonum spoke from the middle of 
 the pond, and said she loved to be in the deepest 
 waters ; for her part she did not like mud, and 
 should not be content to live half in and half out of 
 her beloved element, like that little dirty cousin of 
 hers. 
 
 The next lake Mary passed in her walk, was al¬ 
 most hidden from view by the broad shining leaves 
 of the beautiful Nymphaeas, reposing on the surface, 
 and spreading their corollas to the sun, whose glit¬ 
 tering beams were reflected from the snow-white 
 petals upon the yellow anthers that stood clustered 
 
196 
 
 in the midst. A rich perfume streamed upward, 
 and almost overpowered the sense that perceived it, 
 and a voice came, soft and sweet, as befitted such 
 lady-flowers. 
 
 “We are beloved by all men,” it murmured, “ and 
 gratefully we endeavor to reward that love. If you 
 gather us, sweet little girl, be careful not to bruise 
 our stalks, else we shall soon droop and wither, for 
 we cannot live long without water, and the delicate 
 veins of our tubular stems are easily crushed and 
 broken. You see how long they are. They rise 
 from the very bed of the lake, and how deep soever 
 it may be, it matters not, for they are endowed with 
 an elastic power that lengthens the stem and keeps 
 our flowers and leaves still on the surface. The 
 upper sides of our leaves repel the water, too, so 
 that they cannot sink. We open our corolla at 
 seven in the morning, and at four we turn to take 
 
197 
 
 a last look at our father, the Sun, and then close 
 our eyes that we may not see the darkness which 
 is said to wrap the world in gloom when he is gone. 
 May we never see that wretched day which men 
 call night! They say they love it, that it is like 
 their sorrows, and that it gives them rest; but we 
 know no joy but in sunshine, and care not for the 
 moon and stars even of the poets that love us best, 
 and sing the sweetest songs to us. 
 
 “When our flowering season is past, we descend 
 and let our germs ripen in the water. ‘ Under our 
 shade expatiates the water-spider. She encloses a 
 bubble of air in a contexture of filaments, takes her 
 station in the midst, and plunges to the bottom of 
 the lake, when the air-bubble appears like a globule 
 of quicksilver. There she is exempt from every 
 fear. If two happen to meet who suit each other, 
 the two globules unite into one, and the two insects 
 
198 
 
 are in the same atmosphere. And what grottoes 
 under the sea were ever so cool V* 
 
 “In India,” she continued, “we are called ‘De¬ 
 light of the Waters.’ In Egypt, where men believe 
 the world rose from the waters, the deities are often 
 represented seated on a Lotus, (for such is our name 
 there.) The Persians consecrate us to the sun, 
 whom they worship as ‘lord of the Lotus.’ The 
 Egyptians also make bread of our seeds. And 
 when the plain of the Nile is covered w r ith water, 
 we are so abundant that we may well be called the 
 ‘watery world of flow r ers.’” Mary thought so too, 
 when she imagined what a beautiful sight it must 
 be. She remembered the corn and wheat fields 
 that furnish the material for bread at home, and 
 thought it must take many pond-lilies to make 
 enough for all the people, if all the seeds were 
 
 * Bernardin St. Pierre. 
 

Vallisneria, 
 
199 
 
 contained in the round germ that stood in the midst 
 of the flower. 
 
 The Pond-lily then told her of the Vallisneria Spi¬ 
 ralis, which grows in Italy, and has two sets of 
 flowers. The long cork-screw stalks rise to the 
 top of the water where the calyx of the fertile flow¬ 
 ers expands in the open air. Many more rise soon 
 after, on long, straight stems, looking like white 
 bubbles, and suddenly burst when they reach the 
 surface, and float about it in such abundance as to 
 cover it entirely, scattering their pollen over the 
 stigmas of the other blossoms. Then these stalks 
 resume their spiral form, and descending, ripen their 
 fruit at the bottom of the water. 
 
 She told, too, of the Fucus Giganticus, that rises 
 three hundred feet from the bed of the lakes, bear¬ 
 ing on its stem vesicles of air, that retain it in its 
 erect posture, and supporting leaves on the surface 
 
200 
 
 twelve feet in length, covering it like a carpet. 
 “ But other flowers call you,” said she ; “ I will de¬ 
 tain you only to say, that sparrows love our seeds.” 
 
 Mary wished she would tell how the sparrows got 
 them out of the water, but the Pond-lily spoke no 
 more. 
 
 Long did the little girl linger around this charmed 
 spot. The flowers were just far enough from her to 
 be inaccessible, yet she could see them and inhale 
 their sweets, and was never tired of gazing at their 
 wonderful beauty. 
 
 The bud-like Gentians grew on the edges of the 
 lake, and farther on, in drier places, stood many of 
 the fringed ones. 
 
 A few yellow Gerardias, which still remained, 
 formed a pleasing contrast with the deep purple 
 Gentians, who told Mary that, their virtue was first 
 discovered by Gentius, a king of Illyria, from whom 
 
201 
 
 they were named. They could be made into good 
 oeer, and their large roots were used for medicine. 
 The Gerardias said they too were useful to man, 
 and that they were named from a dear old gentleman, 
 who many, many long years ago, had a garden full 
 of flowers of all sorts, whose lives he had written in 
 a great book, which was full of pictures, and they 
 thought their pictures must be there, since they 
 were named from him. 
 
 But the beautiful day was drawing to its close, and 
 Mary returned with her mother, to close her eyes as 
 the Pond-lilies closed theirs, till another day. As 
 they returned through the meadow and opened 
 the little garden gate, a sweet-scented Clover that 
 stood near it was entangled in the hinge. The pres¬ 
 sure of the leaves drew forth all its sweets, and Mary 
 gathered a sprig to wear in her bosom, and then store 
 it away in her favorite drawer, among her pret- 
 
202 
 
 tiest playthings. The more delicate and still richer 
 perfume of the Sweet Scented Pea, arrested her 
 steps, tired as she was. Its pink and white blos- 
 
 V 
 
 soms still lingered among the seed-vessels that had 
 already begun to ripen for another year. Mary 
 gathered a few, and as the little round balls laid in 
 her hand, the bannered flower told her many strange 
 things. 
 
 “ This pod that I bear,” she said, “ is the type of 
 many plants that are useful to man. And see how 
 carefully it is preserved from injury. This banner 
 protects my germ from every wind that blows, for I 
 can turn my flower-stalk which way I choose, it is 
 made so light and flexible. Behind my banner, I 
 fold my wings over the boat-shaped leaf that covers 
 the pod, and within that my seeds are protected from 
 every accident. Often as you have listened to the 
 stories of flowers, you have never heard, little girl, 
 
203 
 
 the wonders I can tell you of this most wonderful 
 part. To the preservation of seeds, all nature min¬ 
 isters. In their manifold varieties are contained the 
 chief nourishment of the race of man. For this 
 use we are made ; and the winds blow, the rain 
 falls, the sun shines, to draw forth from the bosom 
 of the earth the flowers and fruits that will give 
 him pleasure and help him to live. My family is 
 among the first in the scale of importance, though 
 my seeds are small, compared with most of my kin¬ 
 dred. But look at that rosy peach. To form that, 
 the leaves evolved, and the pretty flower blossomed. 
 When it had caught in its rose-formed corolla all 
 the rays of the sun that it could, the petals fell to 
 the ground, and the seed swelled to its present size, 
 protected by that soft and juicy pulp which all little 
 girls love so dearly.” 
 
204 
 
 A poet says, answered little Mary, 
 
 “ Say not you love the delicate treat 1 , 
 
 But like it, enjoy it, and tranquilly eat.” 
 
 “The Nut-tree that stands near it,” the Pea went 
 on to say, “loves best to grow by the running 
 streams. We know this by its seeds, which are 
 formed of two little skiffs closely joined, so that 
 whichever way it turns it can float on the waters. 
 My friend Nasturtium, too, longs for the waters of 
 her native clime. Do you see her boat-shaped 
 seeds that fall to the ground in this pretty garden ? 
 They were destined to skim the waves a little while 
 and then find a resting place on their brink. But 
 we can grow wherever we are. We love some 
 spots better than others, but wherever there is soil 
 to cover us, and skies to water us, we can adapt 
 ourselves to a change. Man travels far and wide 
 on this large globe, and he can take us with him 
 
205 
 
 and plant us wherever he chooses. Some little 
 change in the form of our leaves will remedy the 
 evils to which we are subject in being torn from 
 our native lands. But though we can do our ap¬ 
 pointed task, and bring forth the seeds that nour¬ 
 ish, it is true that we are happier and more vig¬ 
 orous at home, in our native soil, and among the 
 friends of our childhood, than when transported over 
 seas and mountains. No sky is so fair as our own, 
 no breezes so grateful, no sun so bright. But it is 
 also true that there are many plants whose country 
 is the world. Their winged seeds gaily float on the 
 breezes and the tempests, and it is their joy to 
 make the ‘ desert blossom as the rose,’ and clothe 
 the mountain tops with verdure. When the little 
 coral builders have raised their grottoes in mid¬ 
 ocean so high that the waves can no longer cover 
 them, the birds of the air, or the winds of heaven, 
 
206 
 
 waft them there, and soon the desert rock is a 
 garden or a forest. 
 
 “See that Milk-weed just rising from its capsule 
 and floating away to other regions. No ship sails 
 more surely on the wind. The Gilly Flower that 
 looks so brilliant in that circle of blossoms, can 
 thrust her scaly seeds into the smallest chink of a 
 wall and grow there quite happily, giving men les¬ 
 sons of wisdom and faith that prouder means some¬ 
 times fail to teach. The pretty Balsamines throw 
 their seeds far and wide by the sudden bursting of 
 their elastic envelopes. 
 
 “ In those lands where the sun is hottest, and vio¬ 
 lent tempests rend the sky and scatter the fruits of 
 
 / 
 
 the earth, seeds are often protected in large cups 
 filled with moisture. The cocoa-nuts that grow 
 in those climes, are shielded by hard walls which 
 neither the beasts of the forest nor the birds of the 
 
207 
 
 air can pilfer from man, their master. And there is 
 a fruit in an island of the East, so delicious, that the 
 wildest monkey of the woods will come to man for 
 assistance to break its shell, when he sees him 
 sipping the luscious morsel. 
 
 “Your sugared melons and sweet pumpkins, too, 
 are the homes of precious seeds. That graceful 
 elm that throws its branches over the wall, could 
 alone furnish seeds enough to cover with trees this 
 and many other worlds. They fly far away—neither 
 mountains nor oceans stop them—and fall in clouds 
 that obscure the sun, on distant regions of the globe. 
 And if seeds slumber hundreds of years, the light 
 and heat of the sun will revive them, and make them 
 as vigorous as ever. We find it hard to die. Can 
 you live so long, little daughter of man ?” 
 
 “ Oh yes,” said Mary, and she thought of Him 
 who said, “ If God so clothe the grass of the field, 
 
208 
 
 which to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the fire, 
 how much more will he clothe you , 0 ye of little 
 faith !” and the life of nature in the flowers quick¬ 
 ened her sense of immortality, from that hour. 
 
THE LEAF. 
 
 In the brilliant month of October, when the pleas¬ 
 ant green tints of the grass and foliage, so agreeable 
 to the eye during the heat of summer, were changed 
 into the gorgeous colors that precede the falling of 
 the leaf, Mary went to the beautiful pond with her 
 mother, who seemed to feel quite sad to see the 
 withered leaves strew the bank and the footpath un¬ 
 der it, 
 
 Mary’s little heart was full of hope. She was 
 
 not reminded, like her mother, by the falling of the 
 
 leaves, of many friends who had fallen from the 
 14 
 
210 
 
 tree of life ; and wondered why she too was not glad 
 to see every thing so brilliant, and to chase the dry 
 leaves, as the wind drove them before her. Would 
 not spring come again, and with it many more 
 leaves? Therefore the wind that sighed through 
 the rustling foliage, and made a melancholy sound 
 to the ear of one whose many sorrows lent it a tone 
 of sadness, was music to the little child, who saw 
 only the beauties of every season, and could perceive 
 no resemblance between faded leaves and withered 
 hopes. 
 
 A maple leaf that hung on a low branch, and was 
 tinged with scarlet and yellow, bright as ever were 
 seen in flowers themselves, came off into her hand 
 on the slightest touch, for she did not pull it. 
 
 “ I should have fallen to the ground in a few hours 
 if you had not plucked me from the bough,” said 
 the leaf in answer to the surprised look in Mary’s 
 
211 
 
 face, “ for I have fulfilled the purpose of my being, 
 and am ready to give place to the new buds that 
 have imbibed the principle of life which once ani¬ 
 mated me. If you wish to know the history of a 
 leaf, I will employ the little breatn I have left to tell 
 you many wonderful things. 
 
 “ You will be astonished indeed, little girl, when 
 I tell you, that this great tree was once contained 
 within the folds of a leaf not so large as myself; 
 but it is true, and it is true too, that many thousands 
 and millions of leaves, each capable of becoming a 
 whole tree, have lived and fed upon this maple, 
 once a leaf itself. 
 
 “ When the seed of this great tree first fell upon 
 the ground, a pelting shower drove it down beneath 
 the soil; and then the sun shone warmly upon it, 
 and the life that had long remained hidden within it 
 began to have motion and vigor. It was wrapped 
 
212 
 
 in a small leaf which never expanded into such a 
 form as mine, but remained the protector of that 
 precious embryo, till it had sufficient strength to 
 put forth roots into the soil, and to throw up other 
 leaves into the air. Then it withered, and the roots 
 drew in food from the earth, which circulated upward 
 to the leaves that were fanned by the air. 
 
 “ And when the sap had parted with some of its 
 moisture, through the pores of the young leaves, 
 that which was left, descended again to enrich the 
 plant, and give it strength to put forth new ones. 
 Wherever the descending liquid, now thick and 
 nourishing, stopped in the joints of the stem and 
 leaves, new buds were formed, part of which turned 
 into stems, till gradually the tree grew to this great 
 height. Every spring, when the warm days come, 
 the roots, which then have many fibres, each with 
 an opening in the end, receive the sap which rushes 
 
213 
 
 upward through the branches in a torrent, restoring 
 life and motion to every leaf-bud which has reposed 
 quietly in its bed in the twig, since the approach of 
 cold weather. If any one should be so cruel as to 
 cut off a large branch at that season, the current of 
 sap would pour forth in a stream ; and the tree would 
 bleed to death in a few days, if the wound were not 
 carefully stanched. 
 
 “ Beautiful was the day when I woke into being. 
 Many leaves in which I was wrapped, had perished 
 with the cold ; some had been converted into thick 
 varnish, to protect the others ; some had been nipped 
 by the weather and become mere scales which shel¬ 
 tered their younger sisters from the winds and frosts. 
 Till that day, there had been nothing but disappoint¬ 
 ment and mourning among the early buds, and all 
 was said to have looked gloomy and unpromising. 
 But on that sunny morning when the south-west 
 
214 
 
 wind breathed balmily upon us, and the warm sap 
 poured upward into every branch and twig, thou¬ 
 sands of us burst our envelopes and shed light and 
 perfume upon the air. 
 
 “ The beeches were the most fragrant of our wood¬ 
 land company, and their delicate pink tints made the 
 atmosphere look rose-colored far and near. But 
 there was no rivalry among us. We all rejoiced 
 together in our new-found existence, and the children 
 of men walked on the turf below gazing upward to 
 our promise with faces of hope and joy. 
 
 “ And happy has been my long summer life, for 
 no insects have fed upon my juices, and no rude hand 
 has torn me from the bough. After I first unfolded, 
 a few cold days threatened to freeze the vital current 
 in my veins ; but the fresh tide that flowed into them 
 every moment from the warm earth, resisted the 
 nipping winds, and when at last I became vigorous 
 
215 
 
 and deeply green, I was not afraid even of storms 
 If dust choked the passages of the air-vessels on 
 my surface, a soft shower, or perhaps a hard one, 
 washed them clear again. -1 could always breathe 
 freely, and you see there are no blemishes upon me, 
 and no accident ever marred my growth. I have seen 
 many friends flourish around me ; I have waved over 
 this pretty lake all summer; the birds have sported 
 through these branches ; the butterflies have flitted 
 round me with their bright colors, but happily have 
 laid no eggs near me, so that the warmth of my life 
 has given birth to no caterpillars or canker worms, 
 which I see daily destroying and destroyed around 
 me. I have seen many unfortunate leaves torn from 
 their birth place, because ravaged by the worm. 
 
 “ I am a mountaineer. You may know it by the 
 winged seeds I bear. You might know it by my 
 channeled leaf-stalks if I were not growing by this 
 
216 
 
 lake, but they are hardly to be seen here ; the chan¬ 
 nels disappear when no longer needed. They 
 would be quite large if I stood higher, where ray 
 roots could not easily find moisture ; for in them I 
 could catch water from the skies and the atmos¬ 
 phere, to supply my needs. From these little 
 canals it would flow into similar ones on the twigs, 
 and the very bark of our trunks is furrowed to carry 
 the water to our roots. When the trees of the low¬ 
 lands and river sides go to live on the mountains, 
 they assume such shapes, or they would perish 
 with thirst. The very reeds and rushes which, you 
 see, are round as they stand by the lake, have con¬ 
 cave sides when they travel to the hills. 
 
 “ Do you see those little mushrooms that have 
 started up since the morning ? They are made to 
 catch the exhalations from the ground. ‘Not a 
 
217 
 
 vapor in the universe is lost,’* little girl. Look at 
 their tiles of leaves lying so thickly together, and 
 filled with moisture. Their umbrella-shaped canopy 
 shades the earth beneath them from the sun, and 
 they catch every vapor as it rises. Some of them 
 are lined with pipes and sponges which catch and 
 retain the dews. 
 
 “ On the top of that high rock, you will find cup¬ 
 shaped leaves. The plants of the tropics are more 
 striking still. The traveller in those hot and sunny 
 regions finds many a goblet of cool water in the 
 reservoirs of the plants. In the season when no 
 rain falls, they extract it from the atmosphere by 
 the attraction of their sharp pointed leaves. 
 
 “ Now observe the little Heart-wort that grows 
 in that marshy dell. It holds water in its two shell¬ 
 shaped leaflets, but that is not for its own draught. 
 
 * Bernardin St. Pierre. 
 
218 
 
 It is to supply a little bird that daily visits it; and 
 if he chances not to come, it is emptied to the 
 ground through the channel that extends to the point 
 of the leaf. I do not know who drinks the water 
 the thistle holds ready in her leaves. The little 
 birds and butterflies pass it by as if it were not 
 good, and it flows off when too full, from the de¬ 
 clivity of the leaf. - Those birches, too, that hang 
 over the water and find food enough from below, 
 throw it off from their branches as fast as it collects. 
 You can hardly wet the leaves of that Lady-fern if 
 you try. It does not love water, but if it wished 
 to grow on the hills, it could have an aqueduct on 
 its stalk and catch water from the skies. See how 
 dry and shiny that Mountain Laurel is. Her leaves 
 repel the thunder as well as the showers. 
 
 “ The bulbs of the Red Lilies, whose leaves stand 
 clustered so thickly by the water’s edge, are them- 
 
219 
 
 selves leaves in another form, and each one can 
 become a separate plant with the help of due mois¬ 
 ture and heat. Indeed, I know one leaf, the very 
 notches of whose edge will throw out roots, if 
 planted in the earth, thus defying all assistance 
 from the seed. I know not how to account for the 
 strange fact, but there are a few plants that have no 
 foliage. The little Dodder that plunges its roots 
 into the stems of others, around which it twines, 
 you very well know. To my eye it is not so beau¬ 
 tiful as it might be. But the Night-blooming Ce- 
 reus, whose splendid flowers open just as our father, 
 the Sun, sinks away from our sight,—did she never 
 see him, do you think ?—has a dry and naked stalk, 
 from which it seems impossible that such a glory 
 can spring. She blooms for the stars and the moon. 
 And the nightingales love her, and man forsak^ 
 slumbers to watch the end like the beginning of 
 
220 
 
 her beauty, for before the Sun rises again, all that 
 life has fled, and he is denied the happiness of see¬ 
 ing his loveliest child. His warmth vivifies her ; 
 his beams draw her from the dark earth ; why does 
 she not show herself to him ? When you gaze into 
 her deep chalice, his very rays seem to be impris¬ 
 oned there. Light and motion that vie with the 
 brilliancy of his golden sunset skies, dwell below 
 and pour their radiance upon the darkness. Yet he 
 beholds her not. Can it be that the light is not his ? 
 Is there any other source of light ?” 
 
 “ It must be God’s light,” said Mary. 
 
 “ Is God your Sun ?” said the Leaf. 
 
 Mary did not answer, for she was thinking deeply, 
 and the Leaf went on. 
 
 “ Look at that Wild Rose-bush by your side. You 
 saw it in its early beauty covered with flowers. It 
 is now ornamented by the crimson seed-vessel. 
 
221 
 
 That is a Leaf in another form. The remains of 
 stamens left on the summit of that rad ball, are also 
 leaves in their secret nature, and certain circum¬ 
 stances of light and heat might have changed them 
 all into petals, which are also leaves though not 
 generally green. If that Rose-tree were trans¬ 
 planted into a richer soil, in the course of time the 
 flower would become double, like the Roses of the 
 gardens, by the transformation of these slender fila¬ 
 ments. And then they would not wither so soon, 
 for they could inhale more air by their multiplied 
 petals. The very thorns were leaf-buds in their 
 origin, as were also the tendrils of the vine that is 
 supported by them. 
 
 “ The cones of that Pine are formed of many 
 leaves, between which are deposited the seeds. 
 They have become quite hard like wood, and are 
 short and oval, instead of long and slender, like its 
 
222 
 
 other leaves. That, too, is a mountain tree, and so 
 abundantly does its penciled form attract moisture 
 from the clouds, that some islands of the ocean are 
 wholly watered by the streams that pour from its 
 pyramidal groves. Behold how green and rich it 
 looks ! Its leaves do not fall till spring, when the 
 new ones are already grown to take their places. 
 Men love the evergreens because they adorn their 
 winter landscapes, and murmur still of woods and 
 zephyrs, when all else is bound in icy chains. 
 
 “ But I cannot live through the winter months. 
 When the earthy particles, brought from the ground 
 in the sap, have accumulated in my petiole and im¬ 
 peded the passage of water and air, activity ceases 
 with the loss of that living flow, and I with my sisters 
 fall gently to the ground, to be swept before the 
 blasts of autumn, till at last we crumble to dust, 
 or are crushed beneath the foot of man. I dread 
 
223 
 
 the cutting frosts of winter, and am grateful that I 
 need not live to encounter them. I have enjoyed a 
 long and verdant summer, and the sharp frosts that 
 change my green tint into the bright hues that seem 
 to dazzle your blue eyes, warn me that my end is 
 approaching. I die content. I have breathed forth 
 those qualities of air which are beneficial to the 
 atmosphere ; I have inhaled those which would 
 injure such delicate lungs as yours, and I have 
 prepared the way for the ripening of the all impor¬ 
 tant seed that is to perpetuate my race. 
 
 “ And such is my destiny, to do good and give 
 pleasure to man, for whose growth in love and wis¬ 
 dom this sweet world is made. I sometimes hear 
 him complain as he walks by these plashing waters, 
 but I understand not his sorrows. When he tells 
 them that the waves of his spirit are sometimes 
 lashed into storms like theirs, they bid him not be 
 
224 
 
 troubled, for they are never so transparent, as in the 
 calm that succeeds the tempest; they tell him that 
 the same waters which now reflect the clear sky 
 and the overhanging trees, with the sunlight that 
 shines through them, were a few days before foam¬ 
 ing with the rage into which they were lashed by 
 contending winds, and that he may, like them, be 
 purified by agitation. But he replies to them, 
 there is that within his soul which neither ocean 
 nor its waves can parallel; that he has infinite 
 wants which this world cannot satisfy. Often we 
 can soothe him, but sometimes we seem only to 
 exasperate his woes. Is it the wintry storms of 
 life, which we happily escape, that makes him differ 
 from us ? or is this not his home, and does he raise 
 his eyes to heaven because there alone is true hap- 
 piness ! 
 
 “Happiness must be there,” said Mary, thought- 
 
225 
 
 fully, “ for my mother expects to find my little 
 brother there.” 
 
 The Leaf was silent. It knew nothing of another 
 world. The life that animates the trees and flowers 
 is divine, for it is the gift of God ; but they know it 
 not. They look up to the Sun, and call him their 
 Father. And their existence is as brief as it is 
 beautiful. When they speak to us, they tell us of 
 many wonders, and of marvellous beauty, but they 
 themselves know not that beauty can never die, 
 and that when lost to sight, it lives in the soul, 
 which never forgets what it has learned. 
 
 Mary saw that the flowers were made happy by 
 
 this world, and that her dear mother was not; but 
 
 her mother told her she would not change places 
 
 with the flowers, for they could not live forever or 
 
 learn wisdom ; but she should be happy by and by, 
 
 if she were good. 
 
 15' 
 
INDEX TO PLATES. 
 
 1. Mesembry- ) 
 anthemum. J 
 
 2. Harebell. 
 
 3. Bindweed. 
 
 4. Goat’s Beard. 
 
 5. Poppy. 
 
 6. Nightshade. 
 
 7. Pimpernel. 
 
 8. Pink. 
 
 9. Sandwort. 
 
 10. Star of 
 Bethlehem. 
 
 11. Tiger flower, 
 
 12. Sundew. 
 
 FLORA’S DIAL. Page 1. 
 
 Genus and Species. Class and Order. Natural Family 
 
 Mesembryanthe- \ Icosandria Di- ) Ficoidcs. 
 
 mumsplendens. ) Pentagynia, ) , , 
 
 Scilla nonscripta. Hexandria Monogynia, Asphodeleas. 
 
 Convolvulus se- > p entan( iria Monogynia. °™° vu a 
 pium. ) 
 
 Tragopogonpra I g yng enesia J3qualis. Composites. 
 
 tensis. ) ,, T . 
 
 Papaver luteum. Polyandria Monogynia. Papaveracecs. 
 
 Solanum dulca- ^ p en t an dria Monogynia. Solanecs. 
 
 Anagailis arvensis Pentandria Monogynia. Primulacecs. 
 Dumthus hortensis Decandria Digynia. Caryophyllecs. 
 Arenana tenuifolm Decandria Tngyma. Caryophyllecs. 
 
 Omithogalum ) jj exandr ia Monogynia. Asphodelecs. 
 odoratum. ) T . 
 
 ■ Tigridics pavonia. Monadelphia Tnandna .Index. 
 Prosera anglica. Pentandria Pentagynia. Droseracew. 
 
 Snowdrop. 
 
 Hyacinth. 
 
 Crocus. 
 
 Violet- 
 
 Narcissus. 
 
 PLATE. Page 5. 
 
 Galanthus nivalis. Hexandria Monogynia. 
 
 Huacinthus oricntalis. Hexandria Monogynia. 
 Crocus vernus. Triandria Monogynia. 
 
 Viola celestina. Pentandria Monogynia. 
 
 Narcissus odorus. Hexandria Monogynia. 
 
 Amaryllidecs. 
 
 Asphodelecs. 
 
 Iridecs. 
 
 Violacecs. 
 
 Amaryllidecs. 
 
 PLATE. Page. 51. 
 
 Wild Colum- ) Aquilegia cana- \ Polyandria Pentagynia. 
 
 bine. ) densis. ) 
 
 Autumnal ) Crocus nudiflorus. Triandria Monogynia. 
 
 Crocus. S — , i • n i 
 
 Wind flower. Anemone nemorosa. Polyandria Polygjnia. 
 
 ™ m GC 0 r ; 1 ' j. Geranium macula- Monade i p hia Heptandria 
 Crane’s Bill. ) tUm ' 
 
 Ranuncula- 
 
 cecs. 
 
 Iridecs. 
 
 Ranuncula- 
 
 cecs. 
 
 . Geraniacecs. 
 
227 
 
 PLATE. Page 91. 
 
 Genus and Species. Class and Order. Natural Family 
 Ins germanica. Triandria Monogynia. Index 
 T-ulipa oculus solis. Hexandria Monogynia. Liliacea. 
 Uvularia perfoliata. Hexandria Monogynia. Liliaceae. 
 
 PLATE. Page 109. 
 
 ^ ie L s ’ S 1 iPPer. Cypripediurn acaufe.Gynandria Diandria. Orchideas 
 
 Witch Hazel. Hamamelis yirginica. Tetrandria Tetragyma. Berberidew. 
 Mary gold. Calendula viscosa. Syngenesia Necessaria. Composites 
 
 1 rillium. Trillium erectum. Hexandria Trigynia. Melanthaceas 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Tulip. 
 
 Bellwort. 
 
 PLATE. Page 121. 
 
 eysuckle. ^ Azalea viscosa. Pentandria Monogynia. Rhodoracecc. 
 
 Gentian. (xentiaixa cnmta. Pentandria Digyma. Gentianecs. 
 
 Arethusa. Arethusa bulbosa. Gynandria Monandria. Orchideas. 
 
 Clover. Trifolium officinale. Diadelphia Decandria. Leguminosw. 
 
 PLATE. Page 127. 
 
 American ) Rhododendron maxi- ) , . ,, . , 
 
 Rosebay. ( mum. f Decandria Monogynia. Solanece. 
 
 Arrow-head Sagittaria sagittifolia. Monoecia Polyandria. Alismacece. 
 °Seal° nS Convallariamultiflora. Hexandria Monogynia, Primulaceae. 
 
 Primrose. ^ CEnothera biennis. Octandria Monogynia. Onagrariae 
 
 PLATE. Page 157. 
 
 Loosestrife. Lysimachia qua dr ifo | ]> en tandria Monogynia.Pn'mnfoce®. 
 
 Lily. Lilium philadelphicum. Hexandria Monogynia. Liliacece. 
 Buttercup. Ranunculus bulbosus. Polyandria Polygynia. Ranunculaceae. 
 Daisy. Beilis perennis. Syngenesia Superflua. Composites. 
 
 wmed.^ | Asclepias tuberosa. Pentandria Digynia. Asclepiadece. 
 
228 
 
 Nasturtium. 
 
 Thom Apple. 
 Dog wood. 
 Meadow ) 
 Cowslip. S’ 
 
 Hawthorn. 
 
 Dragon root. 
 Henbane. 
 Hemlock. 
 Mountain ) 
 Laurel. S 
 
 Dog’s tooth 
 violet. 
 
 Dog’s bane. 
 
 Cardinal 
 
 Flower. 
 
 Vallisneria. 
 
 PLATE. Page 161. 
 
 Genus and Species. Class and Order. Natural Family. 
 
 5 Nasturtium offici- Tetradynam i a . 
 
 ( nale. 
 
 Datura stramonium. Pentandria Monogynia. 
 Cornus florida. Tetrandria Monogynia. 
 
 Caltha palustris. Polyandria Polygynia. 
 
 Crucifer ee. 
 
 Solaneae. 
 
 Caprifoliae. 
 
 Ranuncula- 
 
 cecB. 
 
 Cratagus odoratis- j cosandr j ia Monogynia. Rosacea, 
 sima. 
 
 PLATE. Page 1G5. 
 
 Arum triphyllum. 
 Hyosciamus niger. 
 Cicuta maculata. 
 
 Kalmia latifolia. 
 
 Moncecia Polyandria. 
 Pentandria Monogynia. 
 Pentandria Digynia. 
 
 Decandria Monogynia. 
 
 Aroidece. 
 
 Solaneae. 
 
 Umbelliferae 
 
 Rhodoraceae. 
 
 PLATE. Page 171. 
 
 ( hrythronium amen 'p[ exandr i a Monogynia. 
 ( canum. 
 
 5 Apocynvm andro- p entandria Digynia. 
 
 } sasmijolmm 
 
 Lobelia cardinalis. Pentandria Monogynia. 
 
 Liliacece. 
 
 Apocyneae. 
 
 Campanula- 
 
 ceai. 
 
 PLATE. Page 199. 
 
 Vallisneria spi- Dioecia Diandria. 
 rails. 
 


 
 
 
 
 
 
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