belong to some other plant.

Every body who has been at all familiar with the forest and meadows in the
spring, knows the _Violet_. There are a good many sisters in this
charming family, but none, perhaps, in our latitude, that are more
beautiful than the _Viola Rotundifolia,_ or Yellow Violet, with
roundish leaves, lying close to the ground. The Blue Violet, too, appears
soon after, and is perhaps equally pretty. I recollect distinctly where it
used to grow near the little brook that ran through our meadow--a brook
that many a time has served to turn my water-wheel. Oh, those days of
miniature water-wheels, and kites, and wind-mills! how happy they were, and
how I love to think of them now! By the way, have you ever read Miss
Gould's poetical fable about the little child and the Blue Violet? I must
recite a stanza or two of this poem, I think. The child speaks to the
Violet, and says,

"Violet, violet, sparkling with dew,
Down in the meadow land, wild where you grew,
How did you come by the beautiful blue
With which your soft petals unfold?
And how do you hold up your tender young head,
Where rude, sweeping winds rush along o'er your bed,
And dark, gloomy clouds, ranging over you, shed
Their waters, so heavy and cold?

"No one has nursed you, or watched you an hour,
Or found you a place in the garden or bower;
And they cannot yield me so lovely a flower,
As here I have found at my feet!