THE SPRINGTIME


A child once said to his grandsire: "Gran'pa, what do the flowers mean
when they talk to the old oak-tree about death? I hear them talking every
day, but I cannot understand; it is all very strange."

The grandsire bade the child think no more of these things; the flowers
were foolish prattlers,--what right had they to put such notions into a
child's head? But the child did not do his grandsire's bidding; he loved
the flowers and the trees, and he went each day to hear them talk.

It seems that the little vine down by the stone wall had overheard the
south wind say to the rose-bush: "You are a proud, imperious beauty now,
and will not listen to my suit; but wait till my boisterous brother comes
from the North,--then you will droop and wither and die, all because you
would not listen to me and fly with me to my home by the Southern sea."

These words set the little vine to thinking; and when she had thought for
a long time she spoke to the daisy about it, and the daisy called in the
violet, and the three little ones had a very serious conference; but,
having talked it all over, they came to the conclusion that it was as much
of a mystery as ever. The old oak-tree saw them.

"You little folks seem very much puzzled about something," said the old
oak-tree.