The Strange Story of the Flow 



or a pond-lily is due to the previous admir 

 of uncounted winged attendants. If a winsome 

 maid adorns herself with a wreath from the 

 garden, and carries a posy gathered at the 

 brookside, it is for the second time that th< ir 

 charms are impressed into service; for the 

 flowers' own ends of attraction all their scent 

 and loveliness were called into being long before. 



Let us put flowers of the blue flag beside those 

 of the maple, and we shall have a fair contrast 

 between the brilliancy of blossoms whose mar- 

 rier has been an insect, and the dingincss of 

 flowers indebted to the services of the wind. 

 Can it be that both kinds of flowers are desc\ 

 from forms resembling each other in want of 

 grace and colour? Such, indeed, is the truth. 

 But how, as the generations of the fli 

 succeeded one another, did differences so strik- 

 ing come about? In our rambles afield let us 

 seek a clue to the mystery. It is late in spring- 

 time, and near the border of a bit of swamp 

 we notice a clump of violets: they are pale of 

 hue, and every stalk of them rises to an almost 

 weedy height. 



Twenty paces away, on a knoll of dry ground, 

 we find more violets, but these are in much 

 deeper tints of azure and yellow, while their 

 stalks are scarcely more than half as tall as 

 their brethren near the swamp. Six week 

 by. This time we walk to a we-od-lot clos< 

 brimming pond. At its edge are more \\ 

 score wild-rose bushes. Un the very fir 

 143 



