Joan Silver-pin 323 



these sights and scents to me. The grandfather and 

 his wife, when they were young, as when they were 

 in middle age, and when they were old, walked every 

 early spring day at set of sun, slowly down the front 

 path, looking at every flower, every bud ; pulling 

 a tiny weed, gathering a choice flower, breaking a 

 withered sprig; and they ever lingered long and 

 happily by my side. And he always said, ' Wife ! 

 isn't this Crown-imperial a glorious plant ? so stately, 

 so perfect in form, such an expression of life, and 

 such a personification of spring! ' 'Yes, father,' she 

 would answer quickly, ' but don't pick it.' Why, I 

 should have resented even that word had she referred 

 to my perfume. She meant that the garden border 

 could not spare me. The children never could pick 

 me, even the naughtiest ones did not dare to ; but 

 they could pull all the little upstart Ladies' Delights 

 and Violets they wished. And yet, with all this fam- 

 ily homage which should make me a family totem, 

 here I am, stuck down by the barn — I, who sprung 

 from the blood of a king, the great Gustavus Adol- 

 phus — and was sung by a poet two centuries ago in 

 the famous Garland of Julia. The old Jesuit poet 

 Rapin said of me, * No flower aspires in pomp and 

 state so high.' 



" Read this page from that master-herbalist, John 

 Gerarde, telling of the rare beauties within my golden 

 cup. 



" A very intelligent and respectable old gentleman 

 named Parkinson, who knew far more about flowers 

 than flighty folk do nowadays, loved me well and 

 wrote of me, ' The Crown-imperial, for its stately 



