precious wrapped up inside.

Not days, but weeks,--even months, it is working upon this hidden
treasure before we shall see it. And the July mornings have come while
we wait.

Can you wake at three o'clock, children, and, while the birds are
singing their very best songs, go down the road under the elms, across
the little bridge, and through the hemlock grove at the right? It is a
mile to walk, and you will not be there too early. The broad, smooth
pond, that the brook has made for its holiday pleasure, is at our feet.
At its bottom are the tangled roots; on the surface, among the flat,
green leaves, float those buds that have been so long creeping towards
the light.

One long, bright beam from the sun just rising smiles across the meadow,
and touches the folded buds. They must, indeed, smile back in reply; so
the thick sheath unfolds, and behold! the whitest, fairest lily-cup
floats on the water, and its golden centre smiles back to the sun with
many rays.

We watched only one, but perhaps none is willing to be latest in
greeting the sun, and the pond is already half-covered with a snowy
fleet of boats fit for the fairies,--boats under full sail for fairy-
land, laden with beauty and fragrance.

And this is what the dark mud can send forth. This is one of Mother
Nature's hidden treasures. Perhaps she hides something as white and
beautiful in all that seems dark and ugly, if only we will wait and
watch for it, and be willing to come at the very dawn of day to look for