Of all the amusements of my childhood, I can think of none which I loved so
much as rambling in the woods and meadows among the flowers. What a rich
treat it used to be, just after the earth had thrown aside its white
mantle, and begun to be clothed in its summer dress, to get permission to
spend a whole Saturday afternoon in the woods with my brother and sister.
Oh, how delighted we all were, when we found the first wild flowers of
spring! Let me see. What flowers show their pretty faces the earliest? Do
you remember, young friend? Perhaps you have always lived in the city, and
have never made their acquaintance. But if you have ever seen them,
blushing in their native haunts, I am sure you must remember how they look,
and what their names are. I cannot see how any body can forget them, they
are so beautiful and lovely.
One of the earliest flowers of spring, and one which grew in the woods only
a few rods from my father's door, near the stream that turned my miniature
water-wheels, is the _Trailing Arbutus_. Often you may find this plant
unfolding its delicate blossoms before the snow has left the ground. That,
in our northern latitudes, is usually among the first flowers in blossom.
Soon after she appears, you may see one and perhaps two different species
of the _Anemone_. One, especially--the _Anemone Thalictroides_,
as it used to be called in botany, though it is now the _Thalictrum
Anemonoides_, I believe--is among the fairest of all these flowers of
spring. She has a blossom as white as snow. The _Anemone Nemrosa_ is
almost as fair, too, though not quite, I think. You can sometimes see them
both smiling side by side, early in the month of May, nodding gracefully at
each other, and smiling as if they were very happy. It does not require
much imagination to fancy they are conversing together; and, indeed, I
would quite as soon believe that flowers could talk, as I would believe
those stories about the fairies that children hear sometimes.
There is another beautiful flower which makes her appearance very
early--the _Spring Beauty_, or _Claytonia Virginica_. She is
usually found in the same locations with the Anemone. Then there is the
_Liver Leaf_. Did you ever find that, little girl? Very possibly you
have not taken a ramble early enough in the spring to see her. She makes
her visit frequently in the latter part of April, and she does not stay
long. But after her flower has faded and fallen, there may be seen a few
deeply notched and curious leaves, to mark the spot where she bloomed so
sweetly.
The _Blood Root_, too, will make her visit, and go away again, if you
delay your ramble in the woods till the first of May. The blossom of the
Blood Root is a very delicate white. Hundreds of exotic flowers are
cultivated in our gardens, and very much admired, that are not half so
pretty as this. The leaves that appear before the plant is in blossom, are
oval, a little like those of the Adder's Tongue, which is in flower
somewhat later, and like those of one species of the Solomon's Seal--the
_Convallaria Bifolia_. But when the flower of the Blood Root appears,
you see quite a different kind of leaf, so that even close observers of
wild flowers are sometimes deceived, and think that their early leaves
belong to some other plant.
Every body who has been at all familiar with the forest and meadows in the
spring, knows the _Violet_. There are a good many sisters in this
charming family, but none, perhaps, in our latitude, that are more
beautiful than the _Viola Rotundifolia,_ or Yellow Violet, with
roundish leaves, lying close to the ground. The Blue Violet, too, appears
soon after, and is perhaps equally pretty. I recollect distinctly where it
used to grow near the little brook that ran through our meadow--a brook
that many a time has served to turn my water-wheel. Oh, those days of
miniature water-wheels, and kites, and wind-mills! how happy they were, and
how I love to think of them now! By the way, have you ever read Miss
Gould's poetical fable about the little child and the Blue Violet? I must
recite a stanza or two of this poem, I think. The child speaks to the
Violet, and says,
"Violet, violet, sparkling with dew,
Down in the meadow land, wild where you grew,
How did you come by the beautiful blue
With which your soft petals unfold?
And how do you hold up your tender young head,
Where rude, sweeping winds rush along o'er your bed,
And dark, gloomy clouds, ranging over you, shed
Their waters, so heavy and cold?
"No one has nursed you, or watched you an hour,
Or found you a place in the garden or bower;
And they cannot yield me so lovely a flower,
As here I have found at my feet!
"Speak, my sweet violet, answer and tell,
How you have grown up and flourished so well,
And look so contented, where lonely you dwell,
And we thus by accident meet?"
Then the Violet answers, and tells the child why it is so contented, and
how it is able to hold up its head, and where its pretty blue petals come
from. But I will not recite the remainder of the poem, for I am sure my
readers do not need to be told who made the flowers, and who taught them to
bloom so sweetly in their wild haunts.
The early flowers of spring! I loved them fondly when a child; but now I am
a man, I love them still more. Shall I tell you why, dear child? There is
something sad in the reason, and yet it is not all sadness. I had a
sister--I _had_ a sister. Ah! that tells the tale. I have no sister
now! The dearest companion of my early rambles among the flowers--herself
the fairest and sweetest of them all--has fallen before the scythe of
Death. She has gone now to a world of perpetual spring, and the flowers she
loved so well are blooming over her grave. She faded away in the early
spring, and we laid her to rest where her mother had long been sleeping. By
the side of the streamlet where we used to play in the sunny days of
childhood, and where the Dandelion grew, and the Butter-cup, and the
Violet--there is now the form of her I tenderly loved.
But my strain is sad--too sad. I will sing, and be cheerful.
Alas! how soon
The things of earth we love most fondly perish!
Why died the flower our hearts had learned to cherish?
Why, ere 'twas noon?
I cannot tell--
But though the grave be that loved sister's dwelling,
And though my heart e'en now with grief is swelling,
I know 'tis well.
'Tis well with the--
'Tis well with thee, thou lone and silent sleeper!
'Tis well, though thou hast left me here a weeper
Awhile to be.
'Tis well for me--
'Tis well; my home, since thou art gone, is dearer--
The grave is welcome, if it bring me nearer
To heaven and thee.
I'll not repine--
No, blest one; thou art happier than thy brother:
I'll think of thee, as with thy angel-mother,
Sweet sister mine.
Still would I share
Thy love, and meet thee where the flowers are springing,
Where the wild bird his joyous note is singing--
Come to me there.
Oh! come again,
At the still hour, the holy hour of even,
Ere one pale star has gemmed the vault of heaven;
Come to me then.