The ground
is white with stars. Some are touched with delicate pink, some creamy
white,--but all breathing out the evanescent secret of the early spring.
Such the children of Plymouth used to hang in garlands about the Pilgrim
stone, in honor of the never-to-be-forgotten name of the New England
Argo.
Later in the year come the beautiful blue violets, which are, I am sorry
to say, scentless. Yet their little white cousin, which delights in all
swampy places, is sometimes, in the first days of its appearing, more
regardful of the prime duty of all flowers. I have gathered tufts of
them which (botanists to the contrary notwithstanding) were wellnigh as
odorous as if reared in the sunniest Warwickshire lane; but, as with a
perfect specimen of the cast skin of a snake, such a boon is to be hoped
for only once in a lifetime. With the violets, the beautiful blush-bells
of the anemone come garlanded with their graceful leaves, plentifully
enough. But did the rambler ever find the sensitive fern, which resented
the intrusive hand with all Mimosa's coyness? I never did but once. I
have wooed many a delicate frond of all varieties of fern since, but
never one so conscious.
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