18 KIVERBY 



a bough, with the same four speckled eggs. As 

 we come in sight of the lilies, where they cover the 

 water at the outlet of the lake, a brisk gust of 

 wind, as if it had been waiting to surprise us, 

 sweeps down and causes every leaf to leap from 

 the water and show its pink under side. Was it 

 a fluttering of hundreds of wings, or the clapping 

 of a multitude of hands 1 But there rocked the lilies 

 with their golden hearts open to the sun, and their 

 tender white petals as fresh as crystals of snow. 

 What a queenly flower, indeed, the type of unsul- 

 lied purity and sweetness ! Its root, like a black, 

 corrugated, ugly reptile, clinging to the slime, but 

 its flower in purity and whiteness like a star. There 

 is something very pretty in the closed bud making 

 its way up through the water to meet the sun; and 

 there is something touching in the flower closing 

 itself up again after its brief career, and slowly 

 burying itself beneath the dark wave. One almost 

 fancies a sad, regretful look in it as the stem draws 

 it downward to mature its seed on the sunless bot- 

 tom. The pond-lily is a flower of the morning; it 

 closes a little after noon ; but after you have plucked 

 it and carried it home, it still feels the call of the 

 morning sun, and will open to him, if you give it 

 a good chance. Coil their stems up in the grass 

 on the lawn, where the sun's rays can reach them, 

 and sprinkle them copiously. By the time you are 

 ready for your morning walk, there they sit upon 

 the moist grass, almost as charmingly as upon the 

 wave. 



