had a theory that a great deal of the misery and discord in the world
comes from things not matching properly as they should; and he thought
there ought to be a certain correspondence between all things that
were in juxtaposition to each other, just as there ought to be between
the last two words of a couplet of poetry. But he found, very often,
there was no correspondence at all, just as words in poetry do not
always rhyme when they should. However, he did his best to remedy
it. He saw that every one of his children's names were suitable
and accorded with their personal characteristics; and in his
flower-garden--for he raised flowers for the market--only those of
complementary colors were allowed to grow in adjoining beds, and, as
often as possible, they rhymed in their names. But that was a more
difficult matter to manage, and very few flowers were rhymed, or, if
they were, none rhymed correctly. He had a bed of box next to one of
phlox, and a trellis of woodbine grew next to one of eglantine, and a
thicket of elder-blows was next to one of rose; but he was forced
to let his violets and honeysuckles and many others go entirely
unrhymed--this disturbed him considerably, but he reflected that it
was not his fault, but that of the man who made the language and named
the different flowers--he should have looked to it that those of
complementary colors had names to rhyme with each other, then all
would have been harmonious and as it should have been.

Father Flower had chosen this way of earning his livelihood when he
realized that he was doomed to be an unappreciated poet, because it
suited so well with his name; and if the flowers had only rhymed a
little better he would have been very well contented. As it was, he
never grumbled. He also saw to it that the furniture in his little
house and the cooking utensils rhymed as nearly as possible, though
that too was oftentimes a difficult matter to bring about, and