68 THE HAWTHORN. 



The pride of my little stand, last winter, was a 

 white Camelia Japonica, gracefully towering above 

 its companions, terminating in one of the richest 

 floral gems that I ever beheld. Summoning, one 

 day, some young friends to admire it, I was start- 

 led to find the stalk bare ; and, looking down, I 

 saw the petals, not scattered about, but fallen into a 

 half-empty flower-pot, upon the lowest round, where 

 they laid in such a snowy mass of death -like 

 beauty, as perfectly embodied that vague idea— • 

 the corpse of a flower. 



Yet, in general, the evanescence of these bright 

 and beautiful creations affects me far less than 

 their unchangeableness. Individually, the florets 

 may perish in a day ; but succeeding families 

 appear, formed and pencilled, and tinted with such 

 undeviating fidelity, as to bewilder the imagina- 

 tion ; leading it back, step by step, through seasons 

 that have been crowned with the same unfailing 

 wreaths. The flowers of this year come not to 

 me as strangers, never seen before ; I can select 

 and group the different species, as of old, and gaze 

 upon them with the eye and the heart of delighted 

 welcome : for surely these are loved companions, 

 revisiting my home, to awaken recollections of 

 the many hours that we have passed together — 

 hours of joy, rendered more joyous by their glad- 

 dening smiles ; hours of sorrow, when, in silent 



