The heavens such grace did lend her,
That adored she might be."

One might have thought that Silvia was not far to seek, on looking
into the fair face of the child. Now she stopped, and stood for a
moment with head thrown back, and nostrils slightly distended.
"Meadow-sweet!" she said softly to herself. "Isn't it out early? the
dear. I must find it for Aunt Joy." She stooped, and passed her light,
quick hands over the wayside grasses. Every blade and leaf was a
familiar friend, and she greeted them as she touched them, weaving
their names into her song in childish fashion,--

"Buttercup and daisy dear, sorrel for her eating,
Mint and rose to please the nose of my pretty sweeting."

Then she laughed outright. "When I grow up, I will make songs, too,"
she said, as she stooped to pick the meadow-sweet. "I will make the
words, and Rosin shall make the music; and we will go through the
village singing, till everybody comes out of the houses to listen:--

Meadow-sweet is a treat;
Columbine's a fairy;
Mallow's fine, sweet as wine,--

What rhymes with fairy, I wonder. Dairy; but that won't come right.
Airy, hairy,--yes, now I have it!--

Mallow's fine, sweet as wine,
To feed my pet canary.