101 
him remind his friend how they had picked the daffodils in earlier 
fu 
the season than usual, a little rosebud; none but trifling poetry 
could be made out of this, yet other than tiding pleasure it was.’’ 
Does Landor chatter on to us through guileless Boccaccio ? 
harming volubility leads him to—one of the most 
out, “I must inform you, Father Fontesecco has the heart of a 
flower ; it feels nothing, it wants nothing; it is pure and simple 
and full of its own little light.” 
So if we cross the sea and listen to Oliver Wendell Holmes, 
d 
hearted verse opens quietly as a Nal lily, to ae on the surface 
without breaking it into a ripple. 
o with Emerson, to whose praises flowers lend the highest 
finish, “for the ancients,” he says, “ called es the flowering 
of virtue; ‘tis the nameless eae ” he tells “which roses 
and violets hint and foreshoy 
Would we known what ase: from flowers is felt by the 
novelist, I open the pages 7 Hawthorne in his Twice Told 
gold,’ coming with her ‘‘bunch of buttercups and dandelions.” 
And at Tanglewood Porch where Hawthorne’s children listen to 
him in breathless circle, <now his feeling for flowers in their 
names, for there are little ‘ Periwinkle, and Cowslip, Primrose 
and Dandelion,’ and h ims indeed their titles would “suit a 
p of fai "Th a whole story he tells us of little 
rou ries. ere 1S 
Daffydown Dilly, who ‘‘in. his nature resembled a flower and 
loved to do only that which was beautiful and agreeable.’ 
t you are saying Hawthorne was exceptional ; with his 
