22 THE EARLY FLOWERS. 



the diminishing light. They multiply until they glitter 

 in the meads and valleys like the heavenly hosts at 

 midnight. By degrees they slowly disappear until June 

 scatters them from the face of the earth, as morning 

 disperses the starry lights of the firmament. It may 

 seem remarkable that the earliest flowers that come up 

 under a frosty sky, and are often enveloped in snow, 

 should, notwithstanding this apparently hardening expos- 

 ure, exceed all others in delicacy. Such are the ground- 

 laurel, the anemone, and the houstonia, among our native 

 plants, and the snowdrop, the crocus, and the hyacinth, 

 among exotics. 



Children, who are unaffected lovers of flowers, have 

 always shown a preference for those of early spring, 

 when they are more attractive on account of their nov- 

 elty, and seem more beautiful as the harbingers of a 

 warmer season. After the earth has remained bleak and 

 desolate for half the year, every beautiful thing in nature 

 has a renewed charm when it reappears, and a single 

 violet by the wayside inspires a little child with more 

 delight than he would feel if surrounded by a whole gar- 

 den of flowers in summer. 



Parties of young children are annually called out by 

 the first warm sunshine in May to hunt for early flowers. 

 The botanist is also out among the birds and children, 

 peeping into green dells, under shelving rocks, or in 

 sunny nooks, brushing away the dry autumn leaves to 

 find the pale blue liverwort, dipping his hands into crys- 

 tal streams for aquatic plants, or examining the droop- 

 ing branches of the andromeda for its rows of pearly 

 gems. He thinks not meanly of his pursuit, though he 

 finds for his companions the village children, and the 

 poor herb woman, who is gathering salads for the market. 

 From her lips he may obtain some important knowledge, 

 and derive a moral hint that the sum of our enjoyments 



