Chapter 45

(For seven pupils, each of whom recites a verse, prefacing it with the name of the author.)

Wordsworth wrote:The rainbow comes and goes,And lovely is the rose;The moon doth with delightLook round her when the heavens are bare.Waters on a starry night,Are beautiful and fair.Longfellow wrote:O flower de luce, bloom on, and let the riverLinger to kiss thy feet.O flower of song, bloom on, and make foreverThe world more fair and sweet.Lowell wrote:The cowslip startles in meadows green,The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,And there’s never a blade or a flower too mean,To be some happy creature’s palace.Leigh Hunt wrote:We are violets blue,For our sweetness foundCareless in the mossy shades,Looking on the ground.Love-dropped eye-lids, and a kiss,Such our breath and blueness is.John Wolcott wrote:The daisies peep from every field,And violets sweet their odors yield,The purple blossom paints the thorn,And streams reflect the blush of mornThen lads and lasses, all be gay,For this is Nature’s holiday.Horace Smith wrote:Your voiceless lips, O flowers, are living teachers,Each cup a pulpit and each leaf a book,Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers,From loveliest nook.Lowell wrote:Winds wander, and dews drip earthward,Rains fall, suns rise and set,Earth whirls, and all but to prosperA poor little violet.

Wordsworth wrote:

The rainbow comes and goes,And lovely is the rose;The moon doth with delightLook round her when the heavens are bare.Waters on a starry night,Are beautiful and fair.

The rainbow comes and goes,

And lovely is the rose;

The moon doth with delight

Look round her when the heavens are bare.

Waters on a starry night,

Are beautiful and fair.

Longfellow wrote:

O flower de luce, bloom on, and let the riverLinger to kiss thy feet.O flower of song, bloom on, and make foreverThe world more fair and sweet.

O flower de luce, bloom on, and let the river

Linger to kiss thy feet.

O flower of song, bloom on, and make forever

The world more fair and sweet.

Lowell wrote:

The cowslip startles in meadows green,The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,And there’s never a blade or a flower too mean,To be some happy creature’s palace.

The cowslip startles in meadows green,

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,

And there’s never a blade or a flower too mean,

To be some happy creature’s palace.

Leigh Hunt wrote:

We are violets blue,For our sweetness foundCareless in the mossy shades,Looking on the ground.Love-dropped eye-lids, and a kiss,Such our breath and blueness is.

We are violets blue,

For our sweetness found

Careless in the mossy shades,

Looking on the ground.

Love-dropped eye-lids, and a kiss,

Such our breath and blueness is.

John Wolcott wrote:

The daisies peep from every field,And violets sweet their odors yield,The purple blossom paints the thorn,And streams reflect the blush of mornThen lads and lasses, all be gay,For this is Nature’s holiday.

The daisies peep from every field,

And violets sweet their odors yield,

The purple blossom paints the thorn,

And streams reflect the blush of morn

Then lads and lasses, all be gay,

For this is Nature’s holiday.

Horace Smith wrote:

Your voiceless lips, O flowers, are living teachers,Each cup a pulpit and each leaf a book,Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers,From loveliest nook.

Your voiceless lips, O flowers, are living teachers,

Each cup a pulpit and each leaf a book,

Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers,

From loveliest nook.

Lowell wrote:

Winds wander, and dews drip earthward,Rains fall, suns rise and set,Earth whirls, and all but to prosperA poor little violet.

Winds wander, and dews drip earthward,

Rains fall, suns rise and set,

Earth whirls, and all but to prosper

A poor little violet.

When winter o’er the hills afar,Has vanished from the land,And glad and welcome signs of SpringAre seen on every hand,Then Robin in his vest of red,And sober suit of brown,From out his sunny, southern home,Flies gaily into town.The blossoms smile to hear him sing,And see him build his nest;For of all merry summer birdsDear Robin, they love best.He chirps and twitters at his work,While skies forget to frown,And all the world is glad and gayWhen Robin lives in town.The summer softly fades awayInto the winter drear,Then Robin gayly sings, “good-bye,I’ll come another year.”So when the woodland trees are bare,And snowy flakes fall down;In little suit of brown and red,Dear Robin leaves the town.

When winter o’er the hills afar,

Has vanished from the land,

And glad and welcome signs of Spring

Are seen on every hand,

Then Robin in his vest of red,

And sober suit of brown,

From out his sunny, southern home,

Flies gaily into town.

The blossoms smile to hear him sing,And see him build his nest;For of all merry summer birdsDear Robin, they love best.He chirps and twitters at his work,While skies forget to frown,And all the world is glad and gayWhen Robin lives in town.

The blossoms smile to hear him sing,

And see him build his nest;

For of all merry summer birds

Dear Robin, they love best.

He chirps and twitters at his work,

While skies forget to frown,

And all the world is glad and gay

When Robin lives in town.

The summer softly fades awayInto the winter drear,Then Robin gayly sings, “good-bye,I’ll come another year.”So when the woodland trees are bare,And snowy flakes fall down;In little suit of brown and red,Dear Robin leaves the town.

The summer softly fades away

Into the winter drear,

Then Robin gayly sings, “good-bye,

I’ll come another year.”

So when the woodland trees are bare,

And snowy flakes fall down;

In little suit of brown and red,

Dear Robin leaves the town.

How the universal heart of man blesses flowers! They are wreathed round the cradle, the marriage altar, and the tomb. The Persian in the far East delights in their perfume, and writes his love in nosegays; while the Indian child of the far West clasps his hands with glee as he gathers the abundant blossoms—the illuminated scripture of the prairies. The Cupid of the ancient Hindoos tipped his arrows with flowers, and orange buds are the bridal crown with us, a nation of yesterday. Flowers garlanded the Grecian altar, and they hang in votive wreaths before the Christian shrine.

All these are appropriate uses. Flowers should deck the brow of the youthful bride, for they are in themselves a lovely type of marriage. They should twine round the tomb, for their perpetually renewed beauty is a symbol of the resurrection. They should festoon the altar, for their fragrance and their beauty ascend in perpetual worship before the Most High.

Lydia M. Child.

(For eighteen pupils, each speaking two lines.)

A harebell hung its willful head:“I am so tired, so tired! I wish I was dead.”She hung her head in the mossy dell:“If all were over, then all were well.”The wind he heard, and was pitiful;He waved her about to make her cool.“Wind, you are rough,” said the dainty bell;“Leave me alone—I am not well.”And the wind, at the voice of the drooping dame,Sank in his heart, and ceased for shame.“I am hot, so hot!” she sighed and said;“I am withering up; I wish I was dead.”Then the sun, he pitied her pitiful case,And drew a thick veil over his face.“Cloud, go away, and don’t be rude;I am not—I don’t see why you should.”The cloud withdrew, and the harebell cried,“I am faint, so faint! and no water beside!”And the dew came down its million-fold path;But she murmured, “I did not want a bath.”A boy came by in the morning gray;He plucked the harebell, and threw it away.The harebell shivered, and cried, “Oh! oh!I am faint, so faint! Come, dear wind, blow.”The wind blew softly, and did not speak.She thanked him kindly, but grew more weak.“Sun, dear sun, I am cold,” she said.He rose; but lower she drooped her head.“O rain! I am withering; all the blueIs fading out of me;—come, please do.”The rain came down as fast as it could,But for all its will it did her no good.She shuddered and shriveled, and moaning said;“Thank you all kindly;” and then she was dead.Let us hope, let us hope, when she comes next year,She’ll be simple and sweet. But I fear, I fear.George Macdonald.

A harebell hung its willful head:“I am so tired, so tired! I wish I was dead.”

A harebell hung its willful head:

“I am so tired, so tired! I wish I was dead.”

She hung her head in the mossy dell:“If all were over, then all were well.”

She hung her head in the mossy dell:

“If all were over, then all were well.”

The wind he heard, and was pitiful;He waved her about to make her cool.

The wind he heard, and was pitiful;

He waved her about to make her cool.

“Wind, you are rough,” said the dainty bell;“Leave me alone—I am not well.”

“Wind, you are rough,” said the dainty bell;

“Leave me alone—I am not well.”

And the wind, at the voice of the drooping dame,Sank in his heart, and ceased for shame.

And the wind, at the voice of the drooping dame,

Sank in his heart, and ceased for shame.

“I am hot, so hot!” she sighed and said;“I am withering up; I wish I was dead.”

“I am hot, so hot!” she sighed and said;

“I am withering up; I wish I was dead.”

Then the sun, he pitied her pitiful case,And drew a thick veil over his face.

Then the sun, he pitied her pitiful case,

And drew a thick veil over his face.

“Cloud, go away, and don’t be rude;I am not—I don’t see why you should.”

“Cloud, go away, and don’t be rude;

I am not—I don’t see why you should.”

The cloud withdrew, and the harebell cried,“I am faint, so faint! and no water beside!”

The cloud withdrew, and the harebell cried,

“I am faint, so faint! and no water beside!”

And the dew came down its million-fold path;But she murmured, “I did not want a bath.”

And the dew came down its million-fold path;

But she murmured, “I did not want a bath.”

A boy came by in the morning gray;He plucked the harebell, and threw it away.

A boy came by in the morning gray;

He plucked the harebell, and threw it away.

The harebell shivered, and cried, “Oh! oh!I am faint, so faint! Come, dear wind, blow.”

The harebell shivered, and cried, “Oh! oh!

I am faint, so faint! Come, dear wind, blow.”

The wind blew softly, and did not speak.She thanked him kindly, but grew more weak.

The wind blew softly, and did not speak.

She thanked him kindly, but grew more weak.

“Sun, dear sun, I am cold,” she said.He rose; but lower she drooped her head.

“Sun, dear sun, I am cold,” she said.

He rose; but lower she drooped her head.

“O rain! I am withering; all the blueIs fading out of me;—come, please do.”

“O rain! I am withering; all the blue

Is fading out of me;—come, please do.”

The rain came down as fast as it could,But for all its will it did her no good.

The rain came down as fast as it could,

But for all its will it did her no good.

She shuddered and shriveled, and moaning said;“Thank you all kindly;” and then she was dead.

She shuddered and shriveled, and moaning said;

“Thank you all kindly;” and then she was dead.

Let us hope, let us hope, when she comes next year,She’ll be simple and sweet. But I fear, I fear.

Let us hope, let us hope, when she comes next year,

She’ll be simple and sweet. But I fear, I fear.

George Macdonald.

(To be answered by a class or the whole school.)

What is the favorite flower of the poets?

Ans.The daisy.

What English poet so loved the daisy that he lay all one day in the field to see it open in the morning and close at night?

Ans.Chaucer.

What violet, so called, really belongs to the lily family?

Ans.The dog-tooth violet.

What flower was named by the Greeks after one of their gods?

Ans.The pansy, after Pan.

About what flower was Emerson’s finest poem written?

Ans.The rhodora.

Which of the buttercups are foreigners?

Ans.The tall buttercup and the common buttercup with bulbous base.

Name some other imported flowers.

Ans.Dandelion and ox-eyed daisy.

Name two distinctly American blossoms.

Ans.Indian pipe and blood-root.

What queen adopted the daisy as her flower?

Ans.Queen Margherita of Italy.

Name one of the most brilliant of August flowers.

Ans.The cardinal flower.

What is one of the most difficult wild flowers to cultivate?

Ans.Trailing arbutus, which grows all over the United States.

What floral poem of Wordsworth’s is famous?

Ans.Daffodils.

What is the most beautiful plant of Autumn?

Ans.The golden rod.

We had climbed to the top of the old Gray Peak,And viewed the valley o’er;And we started off on our homeward tramp,A good three miles or more.The road lay curved like a ribbon of gold,Around the base of the hill,And the brook gleamed out with a silver sheen,From thickets near the mill.But the sun shone warm on the dusty road,Until by heat oppressed,We wearily stopped at a cottage gate;The matron bade us rest.How cool was the shade of the trumpet-vine,A spring ran fresh and clear?The flash and whirr of a jeweled thing,A humming-bird was near.We were sauntering down the garden path,Repeating kind good-byes,When suddenly now were our footsteps stayed,New beauties met our eyes.“Will you have some pansies?” the hostess asks,“O, thank you, on!” we say;But the matron is culling the purple blooms,We let her have her way.Purple and blue and russet and goldThose fragrant rich bouquets;“Ah!” she explains, “of my violets sweet,You have not learned the ways.“There is something good about pansiesThat’s worth your while to know;The more they are picked and given awayThe more they’re sure to grow.”Mary A. McClelland.

We had climbed to the top of the old Gray Peak,

And viewed the valley o’er;

And we started off on our homeward tramp,

A good three miles or more.

The road lay curved like a ribbon of gold,

Around the base of the hill,

And the brook gleamed out with a silver sheen,

From thickets near the mill.

But the sun shone warm on the dusty road,Until by heat oppressed,We wearily stopped at a cottage gate;The matron bade us rest.How cool was the shade of the trumpet-vine,A spring ran fresh and clear?The flash and whirr of a jeweled thing,A humming-bird was near.

But the sun shone warm on the dusty road,

Until by heat oppressed,

We wearily stopped at a cottage gate;

The matron bade us rest.

How cool was the shade of the trumpet-vine,

A spring ran fresh and clear?

The flash and whirr of a jeweled thing,

A humming-bird was near.

We were sauntering down the garden path,Repeating kind good-byes,When suddenly now were our footsteps stayed,New beauties met our eyes.“Will you have some pansies?” the hostess asks,“O, thank you, on!” we say;But the matron is culling the purple blooms,We let her have her way.

We were sauntering down the garden path,

Repeating kind good-byes,

When suddenly now were our footsteps stayed,

New beauties met our eyes.

“Will you have some pansies?” the hostess asks,

“O, thank you, on!” we say;

But the matron is culling the purple blooms,

We let her have her way.

Purple and blue and russet and goldThose fragrant rich bouquets;“Ah!” she explains, “of my violets sweet,You have not learned the ways.

Purple and blue and russet and gold

Those fragrant rich bouquets;

“Ah!” she explains, “of my violets sweet,

You have not learned the ways.

“There is something good about pansiesThat’s worth your while to know;The more they are picked and given awayThe more they’re sure to grow.”

“There is something good about pansies

That’s worth your while to know;

The more they are picked and given away

The more they’re sure to grow.”

Mary A. McClelland.

O where do you come from, berries red,Nuts, apples and plums, that hang ripe overhead,Sweet, juicy grapes, with your rich purple hue,Saying, “Pick us and eat us; we’re growing for you?”O, where do you come from, bright flower and fair,That please with your colors and fragrance so rare,Glowing with sunshine or sparkling with dew?“We are blooming for dear little children like you.”“Our roots are our mouths, taking food from the ground,Our leaves are our lungs, breathing air all around,Our sap, like your blood, our veins courses through—Don’t you think, little children, we’re somewhat like you?“Your hearts are the soil, your thoughts are the seeds;Your lives may become useful plants or foul weeds;If thou think but good thoughts your lives will be true,For good women and men were once children like you.”Nellie M. Brown.

O where do you come from, berries red,Nuts, apples and plums, that hang ripe overhead,Sweet, juicy grapes, with your rich purple hue,Saying, “Pick us and eat us; we’re growing for you?”

O where do you come from, berries red,

Nuts, apples and plums, that hang ripe overhead,

Sweet, juicy grapes, with your rich purple hue,

Saying, “Pick us and eat us; we’re growing for you?”

O, where do you come from, bright flower and fair,That please with your colors and fragrance so rare,Glowing with sunshine or sparkling with dew?“We are blooming for dear little children like you.”

O, where do you come from, bright flower and fair,

That please with your colors and fragrance so rare,

Glowing with sunshine or sparkling with dew?

“We are blooming for dear little children like you.”

“Our roots are our mouths, taking food from the ground,Our leaves are our lungs, breathing air all around,Our sap, like your blood, our veins courses through—Don’t you think, little children, we’re somewhat like you?

“Our roots are our mouths, taking food from the ground,

Our leaves are our lungs, breathing air all around,

Our sap, like your blood, our veins courses through—

Don’t you think, little children, we’re somewhat like you?

“Your hearts are the soil, your thoughts are the seeds;Your lives may become useful plants or foul weeds;If thou think but good thoughts your lives will be true,For good women and men were once children like you.”

“Your hearts are the soil, your thoughts are the seeds;

Your lives may become useful plants or foul weeds;

If thou think but good thoughts your lives will be true,

For good women and men were once children like you.”

Nellie M. Brown.

We would hail thee, joyous summer,We would welcome thee to-day,With thy skies so blue and cloudlessAnd thy song-birds, glad and gay.Oh, the blossoms hear thee calling,Hear thy voice that ne’er deceives,And they waken from their slumbersFar beneath the withered leaves.Little brooks with merry laughter,Run to greet their lovely guest;For of all the happy seasonsSummer dear, they love thee best.So we hail thee, joyous summer,We would welcome thee to-day;With thy skies so blue and cloudless,And thy song-birds, glad and gay.

We would hail thee, joyous summer,We would welcome thee to-day,With thy skies so blue and cloudlessAnd thy song-birds, glad and gay.

We would hail thee, joyous summer,

We would welcome thee to-day,

With thy skies so blue and cloudless

And thy song-birds, glad and gay.

Oh, the blossoms hear thee calling,Hear thy voice that ne’er deceives,And they waken from their slumbersFar beneath the withered leaves.

Oh, the blossoms hear thee calling,

Hear thy voice that ne’er deceives,

And they waken from their slumbers

Far beneath the withered leaves.

Little brooks with merry laughter,Run to greet their lovely guest;For of all the happy seasonsSummer dear, they love thee best.

Little brooks with merry laughter,

Run to greet their lovely guest;

For of all the happy seasons

Summer dear, they love thee best.

So we hail thee, joyous summer,We would welcome thee to-day;With thy skies so blue and cloudless,And thy song-birds, glad and gay.

So we hail thee, joyous summer,

We would welcome thee to-day;

With thy skies so blue and cloudless,

And thy song-birds, glad and gay.

They were right—those old German minnesingers—to sing the pleasant summer-time! What a time it is! How June stands illuminated in the calendar! The windows are all wide open; only the Venetian blinds closed. Here and there a long streak of sunshine streams in through a crevice. We hear the low sound of the wind among the trees; and, as it swells and freshens, the distant doors clap to, with a sudden sound. The trees are heavy with leaves; and the gardens full of blossoms, red and white. The whole atmosphere is laden with perfume and sunshine. The birds sing. The cock struts about, and crows loftily. Insects chirp in the grass. Yellow buttercups stud the green carpet like golden buttons, and the red blossoms of the clover like rubies.

The elm-trees reach their long, pendulous branches almost to the ground. White clouds sail aloft, and vapors fret the blue sky with silver threads. The white village gleams afar against the dark hills. Through the meadow winds the river—careless, indolent. It seems to love the country, and is in no haste to reach the sea. The bee only is at work—the hot and angry bee. All things else are at play! he never plays, and is vexed that any one should.

People drive out from town to breathe, and to be happy. Most of them have flowers in their hands; bunches of apple-blossoms, and still oftener lilacs. Ye denizens of thecrowded city, how pleasant to you is the change from the sultry streets to the open fields, fragrant with clover blossoms! how pleasant the fresh, breezy country air, dashed with brine from the meadows! how pleasant, above all, the flowers, the manifold beautiful flowers!

H. W. Longfellow.

Tis the last rose of summerLeft blooming alone;All her lovely companionsAre faded and gone;No flower of her kindred,No rose bud is nigh,To reflect back her blushes,Or give sigh for sigh!I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,To pine on the stem;Since the lovely are sleeping,Go, sleep thou with them.Thus kindly I scatterThy leaves o’er the bedWhere thy mates of the gardenLie scentless and dead.So soon may follow,When friendships decay,And from love’s shining circleThe gems drop away!When true hearts lie witheredAnd fond ones are flown,Oh! who would inhabitThis bleak world alone?Thomas Moore.

Tis the last rose of summerLeft blooming alone;All her lovely companionsAre faded and gone;No flower of her kindred,No rose bud is nigh,To reflect back her blushes,Or give sigh for sigh!

Tis the last rose of summer

Left blooming alone;

All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone;

No flower of her kindred,

No rose bud is nigh,

To reflect back her blushes,

Or give sigh for sigh!

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,To pine on the stem;Since the lovely are sleeping,Go, sleep thou with them.Thus kindly I scatterThy leaves o’er the bedWhere thy mates of the gardenLie scentless and dead.

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,

To pine on the stem;

Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go, sleep thou with them.

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o’er the bed

Where thy mates of the garden

Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may follow,When friendships decay,And from love’s shining circleThe gems drop away!When true hearts lie witheredAnd fond ones are flown,Oh! who would inhabitThis bleak world alone?

So soon may follow,

When friendships decay,

And from love’s shining circle

The gems drop away!

When true hearts lie withered

And fond ones are flown,

Oh! who would inhabit

This bleak world alone?

Thomas Moore.

(Young people march to a well known tune; each carries a bouquet, and, approaching a staff flying the Stars and Stripes, places the flowers at the base.)

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