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vivid almost a crimson scarlet in place of 

 the delicate pale pinkness so rare and fine. 



A generous flower, too not hoarding 

 niggardly its sweets. You may see, taste 

 even, the clear, glistering honey -drop at 

 bottom of its cup. What wonder bees haunt 

 the orchard so long as one flower remains. 

 What wonder, too, the treasure-trove borne 

 thence is next to the sweet from raspberry 

 blossoms the richest, clearest, fairest -fla- 

 vored of all honey. 



Madame Plum-tree, too, hath honey to 

 match her thorns. Her fairy blossoms 

 burst wide even earlier than her pink neigh- 

 bor are rifled faint and fading, as the 

 rosy beauties begin to peep from out their 

 russet hoods. A fine, heartsome sweetness, 

 too, has our lady of thorns. Not so subtile 

 as the peach-scent, yet truly vernal one to 

 call up to you memory of half-heard waters, 

 of faint skies softly blue, the laugh and 

 cooing of a little child. Curious, is it not, 

 that aught so tender can be nourished with 

 sap from so spiny a stem ? Does it not re- 

 call the dear souls, known to us all, who 

 mask with rough speech hearts gracious to 

 the core ? 



Madame la Duchesse, for all her white be- 

 dizenment, is scant of honey. So, too, her 



