Leaf of the Rose.
Leaf of the Rose.
Still more widely divided than oak leaves, are such as are called pinnate, in which the separated parts are actually distinct leaflets, some even provided with stalks. Such compound leaves may be seen in almost every garden by looking at a rose-bush. In the cut, we see what appears to be five distinct leaves attached to one twig; but the fact is that they are only leaflets, and, together with the stalk which bears them all, constitute but one complete leaf. Each of these leaflets has a shortstalk, connecting it with the main stem, which passes between the pairs, and has an odd leaflet at the end. A rose-bush may have leaves of seven or nine leaflets.
Among our forest trees, hickory, walnut, butternut, locust, and ash have pinnate leaves; and on the honey-locust not only are the leaves pinnate, but on the same tree, may also be found leaves doubly pinnate, and even tripinnate. Compound leaves may be seen also in the pea-vine, which is simply pinnate; but here the place of the absent terminal leaflet is supplied by a tendril.
But if we examine a bean-plant, we do find an odd leaf, together with a pair of leaflets; that is, each leaf is composed of three leaflets. The many varieties of bean-plants are all thus three-leaved. Besides, the woods are full of three-leaved plants, belonging to other kinds of the bean or pulse order of plants. In addition to these and some others, we must not overlook a most extraordinary three-leaved plant, plentiful in almost every forest, and on almost every stone-fence in the country; only too well known by persons who have been poisoned by it, and yet not so well known by most people as it ought to be, for it is often confounded with a plant having digitate leaves.
Leaf of Poison-Vine.
Leaf of Poison-Vine.
Leaf of Virginia Creeper.
Leaf of Virginia Creeper.
Here, side by side, the forms of the two leaves can becompared. On the right is the digitate leaf of the beautiful Virginia creeper, entirely harmless; on the left is the pinnate leaf of the poison-vine. The innocent plant isfive-leaved; the noxious plant isthree-leaved. But we should also notice particularly that the arrangement of the leaflets is quite different in the two plants. In the poison-vine, we see a pair of leaflets and a terminal odd one; whereas in the Virginia creeper, there is no pairing of leaflets whatever, but the five parts radiate from a centre. All the leaflets come out together from one point at the tip of the leaf-stalk.
Plants there are with digitate leaves, having three, five, seven, nine, or more leaflets. Clover has digitate leaves of three leaflets, while the leaves of the buck-eye and horse-chestnut have five, seven, and nine leaflets. The pretty little wood-sorrel plant of small yellow flowers, has three most beautiful, inverted, heart-shaped leaflets, radiating from the tip of the little leaf-stalk.
Leaflet of Wood-Sorrel.
Leaflet of Wood-Sorrel.
In leaves like those of the maple we see the main veins radiating from a point at the top of the stalk. Such leaves are therefore much like the digitate kind, only they are not completely divided into separate leaflets.
Maple Leaf.
Maple Leaf.
Sassafras leaves offer forms something different. On the same tree may be seen oval, two-lobed, and three-lobedleaves. Thus on one and the same plant, we see leaves strikingly different in form; yet the texture, the color, and the veining are exactly after the same pattern in them all, so that a sassafras leaf, whether oval or cleft, can at once be easily known.
Recalling to mind the leaf of the apple, buckwheat, morning-glory, oak, rose, Virginia creeper, maple, and sassafras, we have pretty good models after which nearly all leaves are built, approximating to one or other of these, with certain variations peculiar to the species.
Another important matter regarding the leaves of plants, is their relative position on the stems. There are two principal and very marked arrangements of leaves. Leaves are either opposite one another on the stem, or they are alternate or not opposite. There are whole orders of plants with none but opposite leaves, as the mint family. In other orders, the leaves of every plant are alternate. And again, in some orders, and even on the same plants, are found both opposite and alternate leaves, as in the composite or sunflower family; and a single wild sunflower plant itself has opposite leaves below, and alternate leaves above.
Of our forest trees, there are very few species with opposite leaves. If you see that the branches and leaves of a tree do not stand one opposite another on the stem, you can at once be sure that it is not an ash, a maple, or a buck-eye, because all these trees do have opposite leaves. On the other hand, there are many trees having alternate branches and leaves, such as the oak, chestnut, elm, hickory, walnut, butternut, tulip-tree, alder, beech, birch,poplar, willow, mulberry, linden, locust, and others.
Mrs. Cecil Frances Alexander.
By Nebo’s lonely mountain,On this side Jordan’s wave,In a vale in the land of Moab,There lies a lonely grave.And no man knows that sepulchre,And no man saw it e’er;For the angels of God upturned the sod,And laid the dead man there.That was the grandest funeralThat ever passed on earth;But no man heard the trampling,Or saw the train go forth;—Noiselessly as the daylightComes when the night is done,And the crimson streak on ocean’s cheekGrows into the great sun;Noiselessly as the spring-timeHer crown of verdure weaves,And all the trees on all the hillsOpen their thousand leaves:So, without sound of music,Or voice of them that wept,Silently down from the mountain’s crownThe great procession swept.Perchance the bald old eagle,On gray Beth-peor’s height,Out of his lonely eyrieLooked on the wondrous sight;Perchance the lion stalking,Still shuns that hallowed spot;For beast and bird have seen and heardThat which man knoweth not.But when the warrior dieth,His comrades in the war,With arms reversed and muffled drum,Follow his funeral car;They show the banners taken,They tell his battles won,And after him lead his masterless steed,While peals the minute gun.Amid the noblest of the land,We lay the sage to rest,And give the bard an honored place,With costly marble dressed,In the great minster transept,Where lights like glories fall,And the sweet choir sings, and the organ ringsAlong the emblazoned wall.This was the bravest warriorThat ever buckled sword;This the most gifted poetThat ever breathed a word;And never earth’s philosopherTraced, with his golden pen,On the deathless page, truths half so sage,As he wrote down for men.And had he not high honor,—The hill-side for his pall;To lie in state, while angels wait,With stars for tapers tall;And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes,Over his bier to wave;And God’s own hand, in that lonely land,To lay him in the grave;—In that strange grave, without a name,Whence his uncoffined clayShall break again—O wondrous thought!—Before the Judgment-day,And stand with glory wrapped aroundOn the hills he never trod,And speak of the strife that won our life,With the Incarnate Son of God?O lonely grave in Moab’s land!O dark Beth-peor’s hill!Speak to these curious hearts of ours,And teach them to be still.God hath His mysteries of grace,—Ways that we cannot tell;He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep,Of him He loved so well!
By Nebo’s lonely mountain,On this side Jordan’s wave,In a vale in the land of Moab,There lies a lonely grave.And no man knows that sepulchre,And no man saw it e’er;For the angels of God upturned the sod,And laid the dead man there.That was the grandest funeralThat ever passed on earth;But no man heard the trampling,Or saw the train go forth;—Noiselessly as the daylightComes when the night is done,And the crimson streak on ocean’s cheekGrows into the great sun;Noiselessly as the spring-timeHer crown of verdure weaves,And all the trees on all the hillsOpen their thousand leaves:So, without sound of music,Or voice of them that wept,Silently down from the mountain’s crownThe great procession swept.Perchance the bald old eagle,On gray Beth-peor’s height,Out of his lonely eyrieLooked on the wondrous sight;Perchance the lion stalking,Still shuns that hallowed spot;For beast and bird have seen and heardThat which man knoweth not.But when the warrior dieth,His comrades in the war,With arms reversed and muffled drum,Follow his funeral car;They show the banners taken,They tell his battles won,And after him lead his masterless steed,While peals the minute gun.Amid the noblest of the land,We lay the sage to rest,And give the bard an honored place,With costly marble dressed,In the great minster transept,Where lights like glories fall,And the sweet choir sings, and the organ ringsAlong the emblazoned wall.This was the bravest warriorThat ever buckled sword;This the most gifted poetThat ever breathed a word;And never earth’s philosopherTraced, with his golden pen,On the deathless page, truths half so sage,As he wrote down for men.And had he not high honor,—The hill-side for his pall;To lie in state, while angels wait,With stars for tapers tall;And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes,Over his bier to wave;And God’s own hand, in that lonely land,To lay him in the grave;—In that strange grave, without a name,Whence his uncoffined clayShall break again—O wondrous thought!—Before the Judgment-day,And stand with glory wrapped aroundOn the hills he never trod,And speak of the strife that won our life,With the Incarnate Son of God?O lonely grave in Moab’s land!O dark Beth-peor’s hill!Speak to these curious hearts of ours,And teach them to be still.God hath His mysteries of grace,—Ways that we cannot tell;He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep,Of him He loved so well!
By Nebo’s lonely mountain,On this side Jordan’s wave,In a vale in the land of Moab,There lies a lonely grave.And no man knows that sepulchre,And no man saw it e’er;For the angels of God upturned the sod,And laid the dead man there.
By Nebo’s lonely mountain,
On this side Jordan’s wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab,
There lies a lonely grave.
And no man knows that sepulchre,
And no man saw it e’er;
For the angels of God upturned the sod,
And laid the dead man there.
That was the grandest funeralThat ever passed on earth;But no man heard the trampling,Or saw the train go forth;—Noiselessly as the daylightComes when the night is done,And the crimson streak on ocean’s cheekGrows into the great sun;
That was the grandest funeral
That ever passed on earth;
But no man heard the trampling,
Or saw the train go forth;—
Noiselessly as the daylight
Comes when the night is done,
And the crimson streak on ocean’s cheek
Grows into the great sun;
Noiselessly as the spring-timeHer crown of verdure weaves,And all the trees on all the hillsOpen their thousand leaves:So, without sound of music,Or voice of them that wept,Silently down from the mountain’s crownThe great procession swept.
Noiselessly as the spring-time
Her crown of verdure weaves,
And all the trees on all the hills
Open their thousand leaves:
So, without sound of music,
Or voice of them that wept,
Silently down from the mountain’s crown
The great procession swept.
Perchance the bald old eagle,On gray Beth-peor’s height,Out of his lonely eyrieLooked on the wondrous sight;Perchance the lion stalking,Still shuns that hallowed spot;For beast and bird have seen and heardThat which man knoweth not.
Perchance the bald old eagle,
On gray Beth-peor’s height,
Out of his lonely eyrie
Looked on the wondrous sight;
Perchance the lion stalking,
Still shuns that hallowed spot;
For beast and bird have seen and heard
That which man knoweth not.
But when the warrior dieth,His comrades in the war,With arms reversed and muffled drum,Follow his funeral car;They show the banners taken,They tell his battles won,And after him lead his masterless steed,While peals the minute gun.
But when the warrior dieth,
His comrades in the war,
With arms reversed and muffled drum,
Follow his funeral car;
They show the banners taken,
They tell his battles won,
And after him lead his masterless steed,
While peals the minute gun.
Amid the noblest of the land,We lay the sage to rest,And give the bard an honored place,With costly marble dressed,In the great minster transept,Where lights like glories fall,And the sweet choir sings, and the organ ringsAlong the emblazoned wall.
Amid the noblest of the land,
We lay the sage to rest,
And give the bard an honored place,
With costly marble dressed,
In the great minster transept,
Where lights like glories fall,
And the sweet choir sings, and the organ rings
Along the emblazoned wall.
This was the bravest warriorThat ever buckled sword;This the most gifted poetThat ever breathed a word;And never earth’s philosopherTraced, with his golden pen,On the deathless page, truths half so sage,As he wrote down for men.
This was the bravest warrior
That ever buckled sword;
This the most gifted poet
That ever breathed a word;
And never earth’s philosopher
Traced, with his golden pen,
On the deathless page, truths half so sage,
As he wrote down for men.
And had he not high honor,—The hill-side for his pall;To lie in state, while angels wait,With stars for tapers tall;And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes,Over his bier to wave;And God’s own hand, in that lonely land,To lay him in the grave;—
And had he not high honor,—
The hill-side for his pall;
To lie in state, while angels wait,
With stars for tapers tall;
And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes,
Over his bier to wave;
And God’s own hand, in that lonely land,
To lay him in the grave;—
In that strange grave, without a name,Whence his uncoffined clayShall break again—O wondrous thought!—Before the Judgment-day,And stand with glory wrapped aroundOn the hills he never trod,And speak of the strife that won our life,With the Incarnate Son of God?
In that strange grave, without a name,
Whence his uncoffined clay
Shall break again—O wondrous thought!—
Before the Judgment-day,
And stand with glory wrapped around
On the hills he never trod,
And speak of the strife that won our life,
With the Incarnate Son of God?
O lonely grave in Moab’s land!O dark Beth-peor’s hill!Speak to these curious hearts of ours,And teach them to be still.God hath His mysteries of grace,—Ways that we cannot tell;He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep,Of him He loved so well!
O lonely grave in Moab’s land!
O dark Beth-peor’s hill!
Speak to these curious hearts of ours,
And teach them to be still.
God hath His mysteries of grace,—
Ways that we cannot tell;
He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep,
Of him He loved so well!
Nathaniel Hawthorne.
Whether Midas slept as usual that night, the story does not say. But when the earliest sunbeam shone through the window, and gilded the ceiling over his head, it seemed to him that this bright yellow sunbeam was reflected in rather a singular way on the white covering of the bed. Looking more closely, what was his astonishment and delight, when he found that this linen fabric had been transmuted to what seemed a woven texture of the purest and brightest gold! The Golden Touch had come to him with the first sunbeam!
Midas started up, in a kind of joyful frenzy, and ran about the room, grasping at every thing that happened to be in his way. He seized one of the bedposts, and it became immediately a fluted golden pillar. He pulled aside a window-curtain in order to admit a clear spectacle of the wonders which he was performing, and the tassel grew heavy in his hand,—a mass of gold. He took up a book from the table; at his first touch, it assumed the appearance of such a splendidly bound and gilt-edged volume as one often meets with now-a-days; but on running his fingers through the leaves, behold! it was a bundle of thin golden plates, in which all the wisdom of the book had grown illegible.
He hurriedly put on his clothes, and was enraptured tosee himself in a magnificent suit of gold cloth, which retained its flexibility and softness, although it burdened him a little with its weight. He drew out his handkerchief, which little Marygold had hemmed for him; that was likewise gold, with the dear child’s neat and pretty stitches running all along the border, in gold thread!
Somehow or other, this last transformation did not quite please King Midas. He would rather that his little daughter’s handiwork should have remained just the same as when she climbed his knee and put it into his hand.
But it was not worth while to vex himself about a trifle. Midas took his spectacles from his pocket, and put them on his nose, in order that he might see more distinctly what he was about. In those days, spectacles for common people had not been invented, but were already worn by kings; else, how could Midas have had any? To his great perplexity, however, excellent as the glasses were, he discovered that he could not possibly see through them. But this was the most natural thing in the world; for, on taking them off, the transparent crystals turned out to be plates of yellow metal, and, of course, were worthless as spectacles, though valuable as gold. It struck Midas as rather inconvenient, that, with all his wealth, he could never again be rich enough to own a pair of serviceable spectacles.
“It is no great matter, nevertheless,” said he to himself,Very philosophically. “We can not expect any great good, without its being accompanied with some small inconvenience. The Golden Touch is worth the sacrifice of a pair of spectacles at least, if not of one’s very eyesight. My own eyes will serve for ordinary purposes, and little Marygold will soon be old enough to read to me.” Wise King Midas was so exalted by his good fortune, that the palace seemed not sufficiently spacious to contain him. He therefore went down stairs, and smiled on observing that the balustrade of the staircase became a bar of burnished gold, as his hand passed over it, in his descent. He lifted the door-latch (it was brass only a moment ago, but golden when his fingers quitted it), and emerged into the garden. Here, as it happened, he found a great number of beautiful roses in full bloom, and others in all the stages of lovely bud and blossom. Very delicious was their fragrance in the morning breeze. Their delicate blush was one of the fairest sights in the world; so gentle, so modest, and so full of sweet soothing, did these roses seem to be.
But Midas knew a way to make them far more precious, according to his way of thinking, than roses had ever been before. So he took great pains in going from bush to bush, and exercised his magic touch most untiringly; until every individual flower and bud, and even the worms at the heart of some of them, were changed to gold. By the time this good work was completed, King Midas was summoned to breakfast; and as the morning air had given him an excellent appetite, he made haste back to the palace.
What was usually a king’s breakfast in the days of Midas, I really do not know, and can not stop now to investigate. To the best of my knowledge, however, on this particular morning, the breakfast consisted of hotcakes, some nice little brook trout, roasted potatoes, fresh boiled eggs, and coffee for King Midas himself, and a bowl of bread and milk for his daughter Marygold.
Little Marygold had not yet made her appearance. Her father ordered her to be called, and seating himself at table, awaited the child’s coming, in order to begin his own breakfast. To do Midas justice, he really loved his daughter, and loved her so much the more this morning, on account of the good fortune which had befallen him. It was not a great while before he heard her coming along the passage, crying bitterly. This circumstance surprised him, because Marygold was one of the most cheerful little people whom you would see in a summer’s day, and hardly shed a tear in a twelvemonth.
When Midas heard her sobs, he determined to put little Marygold into better spirits by an agreeable surprise; so, leaning across the table, he touched his daughter’s bowl (which was a china one, with pretty figures all around it), and changed it into gleaming gold.
Meanwhile, Marygold slowly and sadly opened the door, and showed herself with her apron at her eyes, still sobbing as if her heart would break.
“How now, my little lady!” cried Midas. “Pray, what is the matter with you, this bright morning?”
Marygold, without taking the apron from her eyes, held out her hand, in which was one of the roses which Midas had so recently changed into gold.
“Beautiful!” exclaimed her father. “And what is there in this magnificent golden rose to make you cry?”
“Ah, dear father!” answered the child, between hersobs, “it is not beautiful, but the ugliest flower that ever grew! As soon as I was dressed, I ran into the garden to gather some roses for you; because I know you like them, and like them the better when gathered by your little daughter. But oh, dear, dear me! What do you think has happened? Such a sad thing! All the beautiful roses, that smelled so sweetly, and had so many lovely blushes, are blighted and spoilt! They are grown quite yellowy as you see this one, and have no longer any fragrance! What can have been the matter with them?”
“Pooh, my dear little girl,—pray don’t cry about it!” said Midas, who was ashamed to confess that he himself had wrought the change which so greatly afflicted her. “Sit down, and eat your bread and milk. You will find it easy enough to exchange a golden rose like that (which will last hundreds of years), for an ordinary one which would wither in a day.”
“I don’t care for such roses as this!” cried Marygold, tossing it contemptuously away. “It has no smell, and the hard petals prick my nose!”
The child now sat down to table, but was so occupied with her grief for the blighted roses that she did not even notice the wonderful change in her china bowl. Perhaps this was all the better; for Marygold was accustomed to take pleasure in looking at the queer figures and strange trees and houses that were painted on the outside of the bowl; and those ornaments were now entirely lost in the yellow hue of the metal.
Midas, meanwhile, had poured out a cup of coffee; and, as a matter of course, the coffee-pot, whatever metal itmay have been when he took it up, was gold when he set it down. He thought to himself that it was rather an extravagant style of splendor, in a king of his simple habits, to breakfast off a service of gold, and began to be puzzled with the difficulty of keeping his treasures safe. The cupboard and the kitchen would no longer be a secure place of deposit for articles so valuable as golden bowls and golden coffee-pots.
Amid these thoughts, he lifted a spoonful of coffee to his lips, and, sipping it, was astonished to perceive that, the instant his lips touched the liquid, it became molten gold, and, the next moment, hardened into a lump!
“Ha!” exclaimed Midas, rather aghast.
“What is the matter, father?” asked little Marygold, gazing at him, with the tears still standing in her eyes.
“Nothing, child, nothing!” said Midas. “Take your milk before it gets quite cold.”
He took one of the nice little trouts on his plate, and touched its tail with his finger. To his horror, it was immediately changed from a brook-trout into a gold fish, and looked as if it had been very cunningly made by the nicest goldsmith in the world. Its little bones were now golden wires; its fins and tail were thin plates of gold; and there were the marks of the fork in it, and all the delicate, frothy appearance of a nicely fried fish, exactly imitated in metal.
“I don’t quite see,” thought he to himself, “how I am to get any breakfast!”
He took one of the smoking-hot cakes, and had scarcely broken it, when, to his cruel mortification, thougha moment before, it had been of the whitest wheat, it assumed the yellow hue of Indian meal. Its solidity and increased weight made him too bitterly sensible that it was gold. Almost in despair, he helped himself to a boiled egg, which immediately underwent a change similar to that of the trout and the cake.
“Well, this is terrible!” thought he, leaning back in his chair, and looking quite enviously at little Marygold, who was now eating her bread and milk with great satisfaction. “Such a costly breakfast before me, and nothing that can be eaten!”
Hoping that, by dint of great dispatch, he might avoid what he now felt to be a considerable inconvenience, King Midas next snatched a hot potato, and attempted to cram it into his mouth, and swallow it in a hurry. But the Golden Touch was too nimble for him. He found his mouth full, not of mealy potato, but of solid metal, which so burnt his tongue that he roared aloud, and, jumping up from the table, began to dance and stamp about the room, both with pain and affright.
“Father, dear father!” cried little Marygold, who was a very affectionate child, “pray what is the matter? Have you burnt your mouth?”
“Ah, dear child,” groaned Midas, dolefully, “I don’t know what is to become of your poor father!”
Oh, many a shaft at random sent,Finds mark, the archer little meant!And many a word at random spoken,May soothe, or wound, a heart that’s broken.—Sir Walter Scott.
Oh, many a shaft at random sent,Finds mark, the archer little meant!And many a word at random spoken,May soothe, or wound, a heart that’s broken.—Sir Walter Scott.
Oh, many a shaft at random sent,Finds mark, the archer little meant!And many a word at random spoken,May soothe, or wound, a heart that’s broken.—Sir Walter Scott.
Oh, many a shaft at random sent,
Finds mark, the archer little meant!
And many a word at random spoken,
May soothe, or wound, a heart that’s broken.
—Sir Walter Scott.
Tennyson.
A May Day dance
You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;To-morrow ’ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year;Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest, merriest day;For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.There’s many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine;There’s Margaret and Mary, there’s Kate and Caroline:But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say,So I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake,If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break:But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay,For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see,But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree?He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday,—But I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white,And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light.They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say,For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.They say he’s dying all for love, but that can never be:They say his heart is breaking, mother—what is that to me?There’s many a bolder lad ’ill woo me any summer day,And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green,And you’ll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen:For the shepherd lads on every side ’ill come from far away,And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.The honeysuckle round the porch has wov’n its wavy bowers,And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers;And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray,And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass,And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass;There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day,And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.All the valley, mother, ’ill be fresh and green and still,And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill,And the rivulet in the flowery dale ’ill merrily glance and play,For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear,To-morrow ’ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year:To-morrow ’ill be of all the year the maddest, merriest day,For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.
You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;To-morrow ’ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year;Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest, merriest day;For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.There’s many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine;There’s Margaret and Mary, there’s Kate and Caroline:But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say,So I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake,If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break:But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay,For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see,But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree?He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday,—But I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white,And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light.They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say,For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.They say he’s dying all for love, but that can never be:They say his heart is breaking, mother—what is that to me?There’s many a bolder lad ’ill woo me any summer day,And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green,And you’ll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen:For the shepherd lads on every side ’ill come from far away,And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.The honeysuckle round the porch has wov’n its wavy bowers,And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers;And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray,And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass,And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass;There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day,And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.All the valley, mother, ’ill be fresh and green and still,And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill,And the rivulet in the flowery dale ’ill merrily glance and play,For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear,To-morrow ’ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year:To-morrow ’ill be of all the year the maddest, merriest day,For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.
You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;To-morrow ’ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year;Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest, merriest day;For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.
You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;
To-morrow ’ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year;
Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest, merriest day;
For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.
There’s many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine;There’s Margaret and Mary, there’s Kate and Caroline:But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say,So I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.
There’s many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine;
There’s Margaret and Mary, there’s Kate and Caroline:
But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say,
So I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.
I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake,If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break:But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay,For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.
I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake,
If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break:
But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay,
For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.
As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see,But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree?He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday,—But I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.
As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see,
But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree?
He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday,—
But I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.
He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white,And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light.They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say,For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.
He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white,
And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light.
They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say,
For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.
They say he’s dying all for love, but that can never be:They say his heart is breaking, mother—what is that to me?There’s many a bolder lad ’ill woo me any summer day,And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.
They say he’s dying all for love, but that can never be:
They say his heart is breaking, mother—what is that to me?
There’s many a bolder lad ’ill woo me any summer day,
And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.
Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green,And you’ll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen:For the shepherd lads on every side ’ill come from far away,And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.
Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green,
And you’ll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen:
For the shepherd lads on every side ’ill come from far away,
And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.
The honeysuckle round the porch has wov’n its wavy bowers,And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers;And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray,And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.
The honeysuckle round the porch has wov’n its wavy bowers,
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers;
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray,
And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.
The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass,And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass;There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day,And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.
The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass,
And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass;
There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day,
And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.
All the valley, mother, ’ill be fresh and green and still,And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill,And the rivulet in the flowery dale ’ill merrily glance and play,For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.
All the valley, mother, ’ill be fresh and green and still,
And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill,
And the rivulet in the flowery dale ’ill merrily glance and play,
For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.
So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear,To-morrow ’ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year:To-morrow ’ill be of all the year the maddest, merriest day,For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.
So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear,
To-morrow ’ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year:
To-morrow ’ill be of all the year the maddest, merriest day,
For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.
Why comes the flower upon the plant? That fruit may come. And why the fruit? That it may hold, protect, and cherish the seed. And why the seed? That the plant may have offspring—that other plants may grow up and be as near like itself as one living thing canwell be like another.
The flower is the beginning of the seed, the first step toward reproduction, and the fruit is the flower completed. If it does throw aside its floral ornaments,—its petals or other adorning or useful parts of its blooming period,—it still retains the maturing seed and ends in the ripened fruit.
Look inside of almost any flower and you will see embosomed in its petals the thread-like organs called stamens with little yellow knobs at their ends. Shake them; if they are ripe, they will give up the fine dust or pollen, so light that the breeze will blow it away.
Some flowers have few stamens, some have many, and of the latter the apple and cherry blossoms afford examples. Most of the different grasses have three stamens to each of their little flowers. For example, a head of timothy-grass has a long thick bunch of flowers, crowded together at the top of the slender stem. Early in the summer, about June, you may see the little stamens peeping out all around, three of them together, and their little golden knobs dangling in the breeze. Some plants have only two stamens on a flower, and there is a water plant, called the mare’s-tail, with only one stamen. A few flowers, indeed, are wholly destitute of this organ.
Besides the stamens, there are also in most flowers, other threads, stems, or knobs, somewhat like the stamens, but generally of a different color. These pistils, as they are called, have their place in the centre of the flower, whilst the stamens stand around them. Unlike the stamens, the pistils have no pollen; but it is on the latter that the pollen must fall, in order that the plant maybear seed. It is in the bottom of the pistils, that the seeds grow, but there will be no seed, unless the dust or pollen from the stamens, falls on the pistils.
Most plants bear flowers that have both stamens and pistils. Such flowers are calledperfectflowers. But there are also plants that have two kinds of flowers, in some of which are stamens only, and in the others pistils only. Again, there are plants, some of which have flowers with stamens only, and others of which have flowers with pistils only. The willow-trees are such plants.
Of the five senses, flowers address themselves most feelingly to two. In delighting the sense of smell they stand pre-eminent—almost alone. Does true fragrance ever come from anything but a plant? and are not flowers especially the generous dispensers of grateful odors? And to the eye what wealth of beauty do they unfold!
We need think of no more than the lily, the pink, and the rose. Wasanythingever arrayed like one of these? When we look upon them they fill the heart with joy. We smell of them, and exclaim that their fragrance exceeds even their beauty. Again we look upon them, and now we aver that their beauty surpasses their perfume.
Word Exercise.pĕt´alsslĕn´dercher´ishdangling (dang´gling)pŏl´lenre-tains´ar-rayed´pĭs´tilsstā´mensblos´somsma-tūr´ingper´fumead-drĕss´a-dorn´ingfrā´grance
pĕt´alsslĕn´dercher´ishdangling (dang´gling)pŏl´lenre-tains´ar-rayed´pĭs´tilsstā´mensblos´somsma-tūr´ingper´fumead-drĕss´a-dorn´ingfrā´grance
Phrase Exercise.1. Floral ornaments.—2. Blooming period.—3. Afford examples.—4. Golden knobs.—5. Wholly destitute.—6.Perfectflowers.—7. They stand pre-eminent.—8. True fragrance.—9. Generous dispensers.—10. Grateful odors.
1. Floral ornaments.—2. Blooming period.—3. Afford examples.—4. Golden knobs.—5. Wholly destitute.—6.Perfectflowers.—7. They stand pre-eminent.—8. True fragrance.—9. Generous dispensers.—10. Grateful odors.
Tennyson.
If you’re waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear,For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year.It is the last New-year that I shall ever see,Then you may lay me low i’ the mould and think no more of me.To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left behindThe good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind;And the New-year’s coming up, mother, but I shall never seeThe blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.Last May we made a crown of flowers: we had a merry day;Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May;And we danced about the May-pole and in the hazel copse,Till Charles’s Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops.There’s not a flower on all the hills: the frost is on the pane:I only wish to live till the snow-drops come again:I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high:I long to see a flower so before the day I die.The building rook ’ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree,And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea,And the swallow ’ill come back again with summer o’er the wave,But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave.Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine,In the early early morning the summer sun ’ill shine,Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill,When you are warm asleep, mother, and all the world is still.When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning lightYou’ll never see me more in the long gray fields at night;When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow coolOn the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool.You’ll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade,And you’ll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid.I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass,With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.I have been wild and wayward, but you’ll forgive me now;You’ll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go;Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild,You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child.If I can I’ll come again, mother, from out my resting-place;Tho’ you’ll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face;Tho’ I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say,And be often, often with you when you think I’m far away.Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night forevermore,And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door,Don’t let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green:She’ll be a better child to you than ever I have been.She’ll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor:Let her take ’em: they are hers: I shall never garden more:But tell her, when I’m gone, to train the rose-bush that I setAbout the parlor-window and the box of mignonette.Good-night, sweet mother: call me before the day is born.All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn;But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year,So, if you’re waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.
If you’re waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear,For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year.It is the last New-year that I shall ever see,Then you may lay me low i’ the mould and think no more of me.To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left behindThe good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind;And the New-year’s coming up, mother, but I shall never seeThe blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.Last May we made a crown of flowers: we had a merry day;Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May;And we danced about the May-pole and in the hazel copse,Till Charles’s Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops.There’s not a flower on all the hills: the frost is on the pane:I only wish to live till the snow-drops come again:I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high:I long to see a flower so before the day I die.The building rook ’ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree,And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea,And the swallow ’ill come back again with summer o’er the wave,But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave.Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine,In the early early morning the summer sun ’ill shine,Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill,When you are warm asleep, mother, and all the world is still.When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning lightYou’ll never see me more in the long gray fields at night;When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow coolOn the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool.You’ll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade,And you’ll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid.I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass,With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.I have been wild and wayward, but you’ll forgive me now;You’ll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go;Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild,You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child.If I can I’ll come again, mother, from out my resting-place;Tho’ you’ll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face;Tho’ I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say,And be often, often with you when you think I’m far away.Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night forevermore,And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door,Don’t let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green:She’ll be a better child to you than ever I have been.She’ll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor:Let her take ’em: they are hers: I shall never garden more:But tell her, when I’m gone, to train the rose-bush that I setAbout the parlor-window and the box of mignonette.Good-night, sweet mother: call me before the day is born.All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn;But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year,So, if you’re waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.
If you’re waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear,For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year.It is the last New-year that I shall ever see,Then you may lay me low i’ the mould and think no more of me.
If you’re waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear,
For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year.
It is the last New-year that I shall ever see,
Then you may lay me low i’ the mould and think no more of me.
To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left behindThe good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind;And the New-year’s coming up, mother, but I shall never seeThe blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.
To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left behind
The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind;
And the New-year’s coming up, mother, but I shall never see
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.
Last May we made a crown of flowers: we had a merry day;Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May;And we danced about the May-pole and in the hazel copse,Till Charles’s Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops.
Last May we made a crown of flowers: we had a merry day;
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May;
And we danced about the May-pole and in the hazel copse,
Till Charles’s Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops.
There’s not a flower on all the hills: the frost is on the pane:I only wish to live till the snow-drops come again:I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high:I long to see a flower so before the day I die.
There’s not a flower on all the hills: the frost is on the pane:
I only wish to live till the snow-drops come again:
I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high:
I long to see a flower so before the day I die.
The building rook ’ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree,And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea,And the swallow ’ill come back again with summer o’er the wave,But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave.
The building rook ’ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree,
And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea,
And the swallow ’ill come back again with summer o’er the wave,
But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave.
Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine,In the early early morning the summer sun ’ill shine,Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill,When you are warm asleep, mother, and all the world is still.
Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine,
In the early early morning the summer sun ’ill shine,
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill,
When you are warm asleep, mother, and all the world is still.
When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning lightYou’ll never see me more in the long gray fields at night;When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow coolOn the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool.
When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light
You’ll never see me more in the long gray fields at night;
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool.
You’ll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade,And you’ll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid.I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass,With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.
You’ll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade,
And you’ll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid.
I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass,
With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.
I have been wild and wayward, but you’ll forgive me now;You’ll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go;Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild,You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child.
I have been wild and wayward, but you’ll forgive me now;
You’ll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go;
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild,
You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child.
If I can I’ll come again, mother, from out my resting-place;Tho’ you’ll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face;Tho’ I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say,And be often, often with you when you think I’m far away.
If I can I’ll come again, mother, from out my resting-place;
Tho’ you’ll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face;
Tho’ I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say,
And be often, often with you when you think I’m far away.
Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night forevermore,And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door,Don’t let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green:She’ll be a better child to you than ever I have been.
Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night forevermore,
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door,
Don’t let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green:
She’ll be a better child to you than ever I have been.
She’ll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor:Let her take ’em: they are hers: I shall never garden more:But tell her, when I’m gone, to train the rose-bush that I setAbout the parlor-window and the box of mignonette.
She’ll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor:
Let her take ’em: they are hers: I shall never garden more:
But tell her, when I’m gone, to train the rose-bush that I set
About the parlor-window and the box of mignonette.
Good-night, sweet mother: call me before the day is born.All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn;But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year,So, if you’re waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.
Good-night, sweet mother: call me before the day is born.
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn;
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year,
So, if you’re waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.
Gustavus Frankenstein.
It is not alone the delicious grape, the grateful apple, the luscious pear, the clustered cherries, the tart currants, the golden orange, the sweet blackberries, the refreshing melon, the blooming peach, the purple plum, the sun-fed strawberries, or whatever other products of the plants we may deem good to eat, that are entitled to the name of fruit. The very mention, the very thought of fruit, brings to our minds an ever-welcome idea of something not only wholesome and pleasing to the taste, but at the same time beautiful; for all fertile flowers, on whatever plant they may grow, merge eventually into fruit. That fruit may not be edible; it may be bitter, it may be sour, it may be as dry as a chip, or it may even be poisonous,—still it is fruit. It is fruit to the plant, if not to us.
The seed, we may say, is the infant offspring of the plant, by means of which, in the course of nature, it perpetuates its kind. The flower is the first step in the formation of the fruit. The plant opens to the sunshine a charming expression of form and color in the budding flower. Nursing in its bosom the growing germ, the flower usually sheds its gay attire, throws off its petals, its ribbons, and its tassels, and in a sober, motherly way devotes itself to the one great task of cherishing, perfecting, and guarding the seed.
In fact, the flower, which at first seemed buta transport of joy, now shorn of its bridal ornaments, has become the substantial fruit. That fruit is the guardian of the seed, within which sleeps the infant plant; and according to the needs of that seed will the fruit be fashioned. Are the seeds to be carried far and wide?—ten to one the fruit is furnished with a plume, a sail, or a wing, by which to be wafted through the air, or with hooks to cling to passing animals, or with some other contrivance to effect conveyance.
Or, if the seed inside be provided with a sail, the fruit will open and let the little seed go forth and seek its fortune by itself. Endless are the expedients by which the seed and the fruit seek to perpetuate the kind of plant from which they spring.
We may look at the well-known fruit-head of the dandelion, which is the prettiest little airy-like silken ball that can be imagined. Doubtless, it has not occurred to everybody, what this beautiful sphere, so common in the meadows and by the road-sides, really is. Previous to this sphere, and in the place of it, was the flower, the well-known yellow dandelion, which belongs to the composite family.
Dandelion Head.
Dandelion Head.
The dandelion is not reallyoneflower, but a circled group of many small flowers or florets. These are surroundedby an outer circle of green leaflets, which bend down when the florets have changed into fruits, allowing them to radiate in every direction from the core in the centre. The whole ball is made up of many small fruits, each of which is a single seed enclosed in a thin cover, surmounted by an elevated circled plume.
Blow on this lovely little sphere, and away will fly the little tufted fruits, some one way and some another. If there is any breeze stirring, there is no knowing how far they will go. It is not strange, then, that dandelions spring up almost everywhere. See what a vast number of fruits must go sailing about, all over the country, on a dry midsummer’s day. It is true, not half of them grow up into plants to make more dandelions, but a great many of them do.
In the same way, the beautiful asters of our woods, with their flowers of yellow or purplish disks, and lovely rays of white or purple, as large as roses, let their little fruits fly away from their heads as soon as ripe and dry.
There are about as many different kinds of fruits as there are of flowers. The plants of the bean family, for instance, have fruits like the bean pods. These pods, when ripe and dry, split open at the two edges, and then the beans or seeds drop out. Do you know the pods of the honey-locust trees,—large, broad, thin, and sweet? Clover too belongs to the bean family. You can find the tiny pods in the dry heads of clover, if you will pick out the little withered flowers and open them.
Some fruits have a kind of wings. Such are the fruits of our beautiful maple tree; and very pretty are thesemaple keys, as they are called, when they hang in clusters from the branches, and dangle among the leaves. At the end, where they are joined, there is in each key a thick, hard, round swelling, in which is the seed. When the fruit is ripe and dry it falls off, and we may often see the pair of keys flying away together. As they are light, they go whirling in the wind, sometimes to a great distance. The fruit of the ash-tree looks like that of the maple, and also hangs in bunches; but each fruit is a single key.
These are but a few of the many kinds of fruits to be found on plants, each in itself a curiosity and a beauty; and how much we fairly owe to them is scarcely ever in our thoughts. If we consider but wheat alone, how valuable to us is its little fruit, the simple grain; to say nothing of the fruits of other grasses, such as rice, rye, oats, and the large and generous ears of Indian-corn.
Nor must the cotton-plant be forgotten, whose fruit does not indeed feed, but clothes our bodies, enters into countless uses in every household, is indispensable on every craft that sails the sea, and inseparable from so many industries on land and water. The fruit of the cotton-plant is a pod, which, bursting open, reveals a mass of white woolly fibres, enveloping and clinging to the seeds. This is the beautiful and useful cotton.
Phrase Exercise.1. Merge eventually.—2. Perpetuates its kind.—3. Charming expression.—4. Usually sheds its gay attire.—5. Shorn of its bridal ornaments.—6. Contrivance to effect conveyance.—7. Surrounded by an elevated circled plume.—8.Indispensableoneverycraft.—9.Inseparablefrom so manyindustries.
1. Merge eventually.—2. Perpetuates its kind.—3. Charming expression.—4. Usually sheds its gay attire.—5. Shorn of its bridal ornaments.—6. Contrivance to effect conveyance.—7. Surrounded by an elevated circled plume.—8.Indispensableoneverycraft.—9.Inseparablefrom so manyindustries.
Tennyson.
The May Queen dying in bed
I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am;And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb.How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year!To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet’s here.O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies,And sweeter is the young lamb’s voice to me that cannot rise,And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow,And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go.It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun,And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done!But still I think it can’t be long before I find release;And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace.O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair!And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there!O blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head!A thousand times I blessed him, as he knelt beside my bed.He taught me all the mercy, for he showed me all the sin.Now, tho’ my lamp was lighted late, there’s One will let me in:Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be,For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me.I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat,There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet:But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine,And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.All in the wild March morning I heard the angels call;It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all;The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll,And in the wild March morning I heard them call my soul.For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear;I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here;With all my strength I prayed for both, and so I felt resigned,And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my bed,And then did something speak to me—I know not what was said;For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind,And up the valley came again the music on the wind.But you were sleeping; and I said, “It’s not for them: it’s mine.”And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign.And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars,Then seemed to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars.So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I knowThe blessed music went that way my soul will have to go.And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day.But Effie, you must comfortherwhen I am past away.And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret;There’s many worthier than I, would make him happy yet.If I had lived—I cannot tell—I might have been his wife;But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life.O look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow;He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know.And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine—Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is doneThe voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun—For ever and for ever with those just souls and true—And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado?For ever and forever, all in a blessed home—And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come—To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast—And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.
I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am;And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb.How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year!To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet’s here.O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies,And sweeter is the young lamb’s voice to me that cannot rise,And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow,And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go.It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun,And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done!But still I think it can’t be long before I find release;And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace.O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair!And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there!O blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head!A thousand times I blessed him, as he knelt beside my bed.He taught me all the mercy, for he showed me all the sin.Now, tho’ my lamp was lighted late, there’s One will let me in:Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be,For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me.I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat,There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet:But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine,And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.All in the wild March morning I heard the angels call;It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all;The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll,And in the wild March morning I heard them call my soul.For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear;I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here;With all my strength I prayed for both, and so I felt resigned,And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my bed,And then did something speak to me—I know not what was said;For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind,And up the valley came again the music on the wind.But you were sleeping; and I said, “It’s not for them: it’s mine.”And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign.And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars,Then seemed to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars.So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I knowThe blessed music went that way my soul will have to go.And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day.But Effie, you must comfortherwhen I am past away.And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret;There’s many worthier than I, would make him happy yet.If I had lived—I cannot tell—I might have been his wife;But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life.O look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow;He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know.And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine—Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is doneThe voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun—For ever and for ever with those just souls and true—And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado?For ever and forever, all in a blessed home—And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come—To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast—And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.
I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am;And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb.How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year!To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet’s here.
I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am;
And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb.
How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year!
To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet’s here.
O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies,And sweeter is the young lamb’s voice to me that cannot rise,And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow,And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go.
O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies,
And sweeter is the young lamb’s voice to me that cannot rise,
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow,
And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go.
It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun,And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done!But still I think it can’t be long before I find release;And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace.
It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun,
And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done!
But still I think it can’t be long before I find release;
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace.
O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair!And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there!O blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head!A thousand times I blessed him, as he knelt beside my bed.
O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair!
And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there!
O blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head!
A thousand times I blessed him, as he knelt beside my bed.
He taught me all the mercy, for he showed me all the sin.Now, tho’ my lamp was lighted late, there’s One will let me in:Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be,For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me.
He taught me all the mercy, for he showed me all the sin.
Now, tho’ my lamp was lighted late, there’s One will let me in:
Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be,
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me.
I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat,There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet:But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine,And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.
I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat,
There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet:
But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine,
And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.
All in the wild March morning I heard the angels call;It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all;The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll,And in the wild March morning I heard them call my soul.
All in the wild March morning I heard the angels call;
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all;
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll,
And in the wild March morning I heard them call my soul.
For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear;I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here;With all my strength I prayed for both, and so I felt resigned,And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.
For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear;
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here;
With all my strength I prayed for both, and so I felt resigned,
And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.
I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my bed,And then did something speak to me—I know not what was said;For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind,And up the valley came again the music on the wind.
I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my bed,
And then did something speak to me—I know not what was said;
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind,
And up the valley came again the music on the wind.
But you were sleeping; and I said, “It’s not for them: it’s mine.”And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign.And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars,Then seemed to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars.
But you were sleeping; and I said, “It’s not for them: it’s mine.”
And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign.
And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars,
Then seemed to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars.
So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I knowThe blessed music went that way my soul will have to go.And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day.But Effie, you must comfortherwhen I am past away.
So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know
The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go.
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day.
But Effie, you must comfortherwhen I am past away.
And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret;There’s many worthier than I, would make him happy yet.If I had lived—I cannot tell—I might have been his wife;But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life.
And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret;
There’s many worthier than I, would make him happy yet.
If I had lived—I cannot tell—I might have been his wife;
But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life.
O look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow;He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know.And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine—Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.
O look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow;
He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know.
And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine—
Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.
O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is doneThe voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun—For ever and for ever with those just souls and true—And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado?
O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done
The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun—
For ever and for ever with those just souls and true—
And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado?
For ever and forever, all in a blessed home—And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come—To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast—And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.
For ever and forever, all in a blessed home—
And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come—
To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast—
And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.
Nathaniel Hawthorne.
And, truly, did you ever hear of such a pitiable case, in all your lives? Here was literally the richest breakfast that could be set before a king, and its very richness made it absolutely good for nothing. The poorest laborer, sitting down to his crust of bread and cup of water, was far better off than King Midas, whose delicate food was really worth its weight in gold.
And what was to be done? Already, at breakfast, Midas was excessively hungry. Would he be less so by dinner-time? And how ravenous would be his appetite for supper, which must undoubtedly consist of the same sort of indigestible dishes as those now before him! How many days, think you, would he survive a continuance of this rich fare?
These reflections so troubled wise King Midas, that he began to doubt whether, after all, riches are the one desirable thing in the world, or even the most desirable. But this was only a passing thought. So fascinated was Midas with the glitter of the yellow metal, that he would still have refused to give up the Golden Touch for so paltry a consideration as a breakfast. Just imagine what a price for one meal’s victuals! It would have been the same as paying millions and millions of money for some fried trout, an egg, a potato, a hot cake, and a cup of coffee!
“It would be much too dear,” thought Midas.
Nevertheless, so great was his hunger, and the perplexity of his situation, that he again groaned aloud, and very grievously too. Our pretty Marygold could endure it no longer. She sat a moment gazing at her father, and trying, with all the might of her little wits, to find out what was the matter with him. Then, with a sweet and sorrowful impulse to comfort him, she started from her chair, and, running to Midas, threw her arms affectionately about his knees. He bent down and kissed her. He felt that his little daughter’s love was worth a thousand times more than he had gained by the Golden Touch.
“My precious, precious Marygold!” cried he.
But Marygold made no answer.
Alas, what had he done? How fatal was the gift which the stranger had bestowed! The moment the lips of Midas touched Marygold’s forehead, a change had taken place. Her sweet, rosy face, so full of affection as it had been, assumed a glittering yellow color, with yellow tear-drops congealing on her cheeks. Her beautiful brown ringlets took the same tint. Her soft and tender little form grew hard and inflexible within her father’s encircling arms. O terrible misfortune! The victim of his insatiable desire for wealth, little Marygold was a human child no longer, but a golden statue!
Yes, there she was, with the questioning look of love, grief, and pity, hardened into her face. It was the prettiest and most woful sight that ever mortal saw. All the features and tokens of Marygold were there; even the beloved little dimple remained in her golden chin. But,the more perfect was the resemblance, the greater was the father’s agony at beholding this golden image, which was all that was left him of a daughter.
It had been a favorite phrase of Midas, whenever he felt particularly fond of the child, to say that she was worth her weight in gold. And now the phrase had become literally true. And, now, at last, when it was too late, he felt how infinitely a warm and tender heart, that loved him, exceeded in value all the wealth that could be piled up betwixt the earth and sky!
It would be too sad a story, if I were to tell you how Midas, in the fulness of all his gratified desires, began to wring his hands and bemoan himself; and how he could neither bear to look at Marygold, nor yet to look away from her. Except when his eyes were fixed on the image, he could not possibly believe that she was changed to gold. But, stealing another glance, there was the precious little figure, with a yellow tear-drop on its yellow cheek, and a look so piteous and tender, that it seemed as if that very expression must needs soften the gold, and make it flesh again. This, however, could not be. So Midas had only to wring his hands, and to wish that he were the poorest man in the wide world, if the loss of all his wealth might bring back the faintest rose-color to his dear child’s face.
While he was in this tumult of despair, he suddenly beheld a stranger, standing near the door. Midas bent down his head, without speaking; for he recognized the same figure which had appeared to him the day before in the treasure-room, and had bestowed on him this disastrous power of the Golden Touch. The stranger’scountenance still wore a smile, which seemed to shed a yellow lustre all about the room, and gleamed on little Marygold’s image, and on the other objects that had been transmuted by the touch of Midas.
“Well, friend Midas,” said the stranger, “pray, how do you succeed with the Golden Touch?”
Midas shook his head.
“I am very miserable,” said he.
“Very miserable! indeed!” exclaimed the stranger, “and how happens that? Have I not faithfully kept my promise with you? Have you not every thing that your heart desired?”
“Gold is not every thing,” answered Midas. “And I have lost all that my heart really cared for.”
“Ah! So you have made a discovery, since yesterday?” observed the stranger. “Let us see, then. Which of these two things do you think is really worth the most,—the gift of the Golden Touch, or one cup of clear cold water?”
“O blessed water!” exclaimed Midas. “It will never moisten my parched throat again!”
“The Golden Touch,” continued the stranger, “or a crust of bread?”
“A piece of bread,” answered Midas, “is worth all the gold on earth!”
“The Golden Touch,” asked the stranger, “or your own little Marygold, warm, soft, and loving, as she was an hour ago?”
“O my child, my dear child!” cried poor King Midas, wringing his hands. “I would not have given that one small dimple in her chin for the power of changing this whole big earth into a solid lump of gold!”
“You are wiser than you were, King Midas!” said the stranger, looking seriously at him. “Your own heart, I perceive, has not been entirely changed from flesh to gold. Were it so, your case would indeed be desperate. But you appear to be still capable of understanding that the commonest things, such as lie within everybody’s grasp, are more valuable than the riches which so many mortals sigh and struggle after. Tell me, now, do you sincerely desire to rid yourself of this Golden Touch?”
“It is hateful to me!” replied Midas.
A fly settled on his nose, but immediately fell to the floor; for it, too, had become gold. Midas shuddered.
“Go, then,” said the stranger, “and plunge into the river that glides past the bottom of your garden. Take likewise a vase of the same water, and sprinkle it over any object that you may desire to change back again from gold into its former substance. If you do this in earnestness and sincerity, it may possibly repair the mischief which your avarice has occasioned.”
King Midas bowed low; and when he lifted his head, the lustrous stranger had vanished.
You will easily believe that Midas lost no time in snatching up a great earthen pitcher (but, alas me! it was no longer earthen after he touched it), and in hastening to the river-side. As he ran along, and forced his way through the shrubbery, it was positively marvellous to see how the foliage turned yellow behind him, as if the autumn had been there, and nowhere else. On reaching the river’s brink, he plunged headlong in, without waitingso much as to pull off his shoes.
“Poof! poof! poof!” gasped King Midas, as his head emerged out of the water. “Well; this is really a refreshing bath, and I think it must have quite washed away the Golden Touch. And now for filling my pitcher!”
As he dipped the pitcher into the water, it gladdened his very heart to see it change from gold into the same good, honest, earthen vessel which it had been before he touched it. He was conscious, also, of a change within himself. A cold, hard, and heavy weight seemed to have gone out of his bosom. No doubt his heart had been gradually losing its human substance, and been changing into insensible metal, but had now been softened back again into flesh. Perceiving a violet, that grew on the bank of the river, Midas touched it with his finger, and was overjoyed to find that the delicate flower retained its purple hue, instead of undergoing a yellow blight. The curse of the Golden Touch had, therefore, really been removed from him.
King Midas hastened back to the palace; and, I suppose, the servants knew not what to make of it when they saw their royal master so carefully bringing home an earthen pitcher of water. But that water, which was to undo all the mischief that his folly had wrought, was more precious to Midas than an ocean of molten gold could have been. The first thing he did, as you need hardly be told, was to sprinkle it by handfuls over the golden figure of little Marygold.
No sooner did it fall on her than you would have laughed to see how the rosy color came back to thedear child’s cheek!—and how astonished she was to find herself dripping wet, and her father still throwing more water over her!
“Pray do not, dear father!” cried she. “See how you have wet my nice frock, which I put on only this morning!”