A Red Wallflower. Warner Susan
various sorts to be had, Miss Esther; a great variety of the herbs of the field are good for eating, at the different times o' the year; even here in this country; and I do suppose there ain't a poorer on the face o' the earth!'
'Than this country? than Seaforth? O Christopher!'
'Well, m'm, it beats all I ever knew for poorness. You should see England once, Miss Esther! That's the place for gardens; and the fields is allays green; and the flowers do be beautiful; and when the sun shines, it shines; here it burns.'
'Not to-day,' said Esther gleefully. 'How nice it is!'
She might say so, for if the spring is rough in New England, and there is no denying it, there do nevertheless come days of bewitching, entrancing, delicious beauty, in the midst of the rest. Days when the air and sky and sunlight are in a kind of poise of delight, and earth beneath them, is, as it were, still with pleasure. I suppose the spring may be more glorious in other lands—more positively glorious; whether relatively, I do not know. With such contrasts before and behind them—contrasts of raw, chill air, and rough, cutting winds, with skies of grey and gloom—one of these perfect days of a lost Paradise stands in a singular setting. It was such a day when Esther and Christopher went after dandelions. Still, balmy air, a tender sky slightly veiled with spring mistiness, light and warmth so gentle that they were a blessing to a weary brain, yet so abundant that every bud and leaf and plant and flower was unfolding and out-springing and stretching upward and dispensing abroad all it had of sweetness. The air was filled with sweetness; not the heavy odours of the blossoms of summer, or the South, but a more delicate and searching fragrance from resinous buds and freshly-opened tree flowers and the young green of the shooting leaf. I don't know where spring gets it all, but she does fling abroad her handfuls of perfume such as summer has no skill to concoct, or perhaps she lacks the material. Esther drew in deep breaths for the mere pleasure of breathing, and looked on all the world of nature before her with an eye of quiet but intense content.
Christopher had been quite right in his hint about Esther's eyes. They were of uncommon character. Thoughtful, grave, beautiful eyes; large, and fine in contour and colour; too grave for the girl's years. But Esther had lived all her life so far almost exclusively with grown people, and very sober grown people too; for her mother's last years had been dulled with sickness, and her father's with care, even if he had not been—which he was—of a taciturn and sombre deportment in the best of times. And this last year past had been one heavy with mourning. So it was no wonder if the little girl's face showed undue thoughtfulness, and a shade of melancholy all premature. And Christopher was honestly glad to see the melancholy at least vanish under the influence of the open earth and sky. The thoughtfulness, he hoped, would go too some day.
The walk in itself offered nothing remarkable. Fields where the grass was very green and fast growing; other fields that were rocky and broken, and good for little except the sheep, and sometimes rose into bare ridges and heights where spare savins were mingled with a variety of deciduous trees; such was the ground the two went over this morning. This morning, however, glorified everything; the fields looked soft, the moss and lichens on the rocks were moist and fresh coloured, grey and green and brown; the buds and young leafage of the trees were of every lovely hue and shade that young vegetation can take; and here and there Esther found a wild flower. When she found one, it was very apt to be taken up by the roots with her little trowel, and bestowed in her basket for careful transport home; and on the so endangered beauties in her basket Esther looked down from time to time with fond and delighted eyes.
'Are you going for cresses, Christopher?'
'No, Miss Esther, not at this time. Sarah has set her mind that she must have boiled greens for dinner; and her will must be done. And here is the article—not boiled yet, however.'
He stopped and stooped, and with a sharp knife cut a bunch of stout-looking leaves growing in the grass; then made a step to another bunch, a yard off, and then to another.
'What are they, Christopher?'
'Just dandelions, Miss Esther. Leontodon taraxacum.'
'Dandelions! But the flowers are not out yet.'
'No, Miss Esther. If they was out, Sarah might whistle for her greens.'
'Why? You could tell better where they are.'
'They wouldn't be worth the finding, though.'
Christopher went on busily cutting. He did not seem to need the yellow blossoms to guide him.
'How can you be sure, Christopher, that you are always getting the right ones?'
'Know the look o' their faces, Miss Esther.'
'The flowers are their faces,' said the little girl.
Christopher laughed a little. 'Then what are the leaves?' said he.
'I don't know. The whole of them together show the form of the plant.'
'Well, Miss Esther, wouldn't you know your father, the colonel, as far off as you could see him, just by his figger?'
'But I know papa so well.'
'Not better than I know the Leontodon. See, Miss Esther, look at these runcinate leaves.'
'Runcinate?'
'Toothed-pinnatifid. That's what it gets its name from; lion's tooth. Leontodon comes from two Greek words which mean a lion and a tooth. See—there ain't another leaf like that in the hull meadow.'
'There are a great many kinds of leaves!' said Esther musingly.
'Like men's human figgers,' said the gardener sagely. 'Ain't no two on 'em just alike.'
Talking and cutting, they had crossed the meadow and came to a rocky height which rose at one side of it; such as one is never very far from in New England. Here there were no dandelions, but Esther eagerly sought for something more ornamental. And she found it. With exclamations of deep delight she endeavoured to dig up a root of bloodroot which lifted its most delicate and dainty blossom a few inches above the dead leaves and moss with which the ground under the trees was thickly covered. Christopher came to her help.
'What are you goin' to do with this now, Miss Esther?'
'I want to plant it out in my garden. Won't it grow?'
Christopher answered evasively. 'These here purty little things is freaky,' said he. 'They has notions. Now the Sanguinaria likes just what it has got here; a little bit of rich soil, under shade of woods, and with covering of wet dead leaves for its roots. It's as dainty as a lady.'
'Sanguinaria?' said Esther. 'I call it bloodroot.'
'Sanguinaria canadensis. That's its name, Miss Esther.'
'Why isn't the other its name?'
'That's its nickname, you may say. Look here, Miss Esther—here's the Hepatica for you.'
Esther sprang forward to where Christopher was softly pushing dead leaves and sticks from a little low bunch of purple flowers. She stretched out her hand with the trowel, then checked herself.
'Won't that grow either, Christopher?'
'It'll grow here, Miss Esther. See—ain't that nice?' he said, as he bared the whole little tuft.
Esther's sigh came from the depths of her breast, as she looked at it lovingly.
'This is Hepatica acutiloba. I dare say we'd find the other, if we had time to go all over the other side of the hill.'
'What other?'
'The americana, Miss Esther. But I'm thinking, them greens must go in the pot.'
'But what is this lovely little thing? What's its name, I mean?'
'It's the Hepatica, Miss Esther; folks call it liverleaf. We ought to find the Aquilegia by this time; but I don't see it.'
'Have