It was autumn now, and the greenwood was not what it had been. The birds
had flown elsewhere to be the guests of the storks during the winter
months, the rose had run away to be the bride of the south wind, and the
daisy had wedded the brook and was taking a bridal tour to the seaside
watering-places. But the violet still lingered in the greenwood, and kept
her vigil at the grave of the robin. She was pale and drooping, but still
she watched and sang over the spot where her love lay buried. Each day she
grew weaker and paler. The oak begged her to come and live among the warm
lichens that protected him from the icy breath of the storm-king, but the
violet chose to watch and sing over the robin's grave.

One morning, after a night of exceeding darkness and frost, the boisterous
north wind came trampling through the greenwood.

"I have come for the violet," he cried; "she would not have my fair
brother, but she must go with _me_, whether it pleases her or not!"

But when he came to the foot of the linden-tree his anger was changed to
compassion. The violet was dead, and she lay upon the robin's grave. Her
gentle face rested close to the little mound, as if, in her last moment,
the faithful flower had stretched forth her lips to kiss the dust that
covered her beloved.

1884.




+THE OAK-TREE AND THE IVY+