Part 36

PIMPERNEL.... The Weather-glass.

THE COUNTRY MAID AND THE PIMPERNEL FLOWER.

“I’ll go and peep at the Pimpernel, And see if she think the clouds look well; For if the sun shine, And ’tis like to be fine, I shall go to the fair, For my sweetheart is there: So, Pimpernel, what bode the clouds and the sky? If fair weather, no maiden so merry as I.”

Now the Pimpernel flower had folded up Her little gold star in her coral cup, And unto the maid Thus her warning said: “Though the sun smile down, There’s a gathering frown O’er the checkered blue of the clouded sky; So tarry at home, for a storm is nigh.”

The maid first looked sad and then looked cross, Gave her foot a fling, and her head a toss; “Say you so, indeed, You mean little weed? You’re shut up for spite, For the blue sky is bright, To more credulous people your warnings tell, I’ll away to the fair;--good day, Pimpernel.”

“Stay at home! quoth the flower?--In sooth, not I; I’ll don my straw hat with a silken tie; O’er my neck so fair I’ll a kerchief wear, White, chequered with pink, And then--let me think, I’ll consider my gown, for I’d fain look well:” So saying, she stepped o’er the Pimpernel.

Now the wise little flower, wrapped safe from harm, Sat fearlessly waiting the coming storm; Just peeping between Her snug cloak of green, Lay folded up tight, Her robe so bright; Though ’broidered with purple, and starred with gold, No eye might its bravery then behold.

The fair maiden straight donned her best array, And forth to the festival hied away; But scarce had she gone Ere the storm came on; And, ’mid thunder and rain, She cried oft and again, “Oh! would I had minded yon boding flower, And were safe at home from the pelting shower.”

Now, maidens, the tale that I tell would say, Don’t don fine clothes on a doubtful day, Nor ask advice, when, like many more, You had “made up your minds” some time before.

Louisa A. Twamley.

POPPY.... Consolation.

The Red Poppy is the floral symbol of consolation. The White Poppy is supposed to express, “My bane, my antidote.” The juice extracted from these plants is employed to soothe the restless invalid to sleep, and to ease the pangs of disease. According to the mythology of the Grecians, the Poppy owed its origin to Ceres, who created it to assuage her grief, during her search after her daughter Proserpine, who was carried off by Pluto. The Poppy is extensively cultivated in Europe, for the purpose of making opium from it. Many species are cultivated in the garden. The double flowers possess surpassing beauty, whether we consider their delicate texture, elegance of shape, or variety of colouring. In the time of Gesner, the celebrated botanist of Switzerland, the village Damons and Chloes proved the sincerity of their lovers by placing in the hollow of the palm of the left-hand, a petal, or flower-leaf of the Poppy, which, on being struck by the other hand, was broken with a sharp sound, which denoted true attachment; but faithlessness, when it failed to snap.

* * * * *

The world has closed its eyes and fallen asleep; And GOD looks down from His eternal throne And shuts the eye that long was wont to weep, And makes the wretched feel they’re not alone.

MacKellar.

PRIDE AND THE POPPIES.--THEIR GRANDEUR AND FALL.

“We little Red-caps are among the corn, Merrily dancing at early morn, We know that the farmer hates to see Our saucy red faces; but here are we!

“We pay no price for our summer coats, Like those slavish creatures, barley and oats; We don’t choose to be ground and eat, Like our heavy-head neighbour, Gaffer Wheat.

“Who dare thrash us, we should like to know! Grind us, and bag us, and use us so! Let meaner and shabbier things than we So stupidly bend to utility!”

So said little Red-cap, and all the rout Of the Poppy-clan set up a mighty shout; Mighty for them, but if you had heard You had thought it the cry of a tiny bird.

So the Poppy-folk flaunted it over the field, In pride of grandeur they nodded and reeled; And shook out their jackets, till naught was seen, But a wide, wide shimmer of scarlet and green.

The Blue-bottle sat on her downy stalk, Quietly smiling at all their talk. The Marigold still spread her rays to the sun, And the purple Vetch climbed up to peep at the fun.

The whimsical Bugloss, vain, beautiful thing, Whose flowers, like the orient butterfly’s wing, Are deep, glowing azure, was eager to shed O’er her yet unoped buds a delicate red;

First crimson, then purple, then loveliest blue; E’en thrice doth she change her chameleon hue; And she pities the flowers that grow merrily by, Because in one dress they must bud, bloom, and die.

The homely Corn-cockle cared nothing, not she, For the arrogance, bluster, and poor vanity Of the proud Poppy-tribe, but she flourished and grew, Content with herself, and her plain purple hue.

The sun went down, and rose bright on the morrow, To some bringing joy, and to others e’en sorrow, But blithe was the rich rosy farmer that morn When he went with his reapers among the corn.

Forth went they betimes, a right merry band, The sickles were glancing in each strong hand, And the wealthy farmer came trotting along, On his stiff little pony, mid whistle and song.

He trotted along, and he cracked his joke, And chatted and laughed with the harvest-folk; For the weather was settled, barometers high, And heavy crops gladdened his practised eye.