A PANSY OF HARTWELL. 



I was a Pansy of Hartwell, a dainty 

 little thing, with gold and purple petals, 

 touched with white, and leaves of ten- 

 der green — "a dear, delicate thing, but 

 fair," so Louise said. I grew below her 

 chamber window, where she had pre- 

 pared a rich, warm bed of mother earth 

 for me and for hundreds of my kindred. 

 ''But none," she said, ''no, not one of 

 my kind, was ever so beautiful as I." 



I remember my birthland well. Our 

 old home in Hartwell, where Louise 

 and I were born, was surrounded by a 

 wide, rolling lawn, filled with bloom- 

 ing flowers from the time of the first 

 peep of the early March crocus to the 

 stately bloom and decay of the autumn 

 ilowers. Here, too, near her window 

 .•grew a straight, tall maple tree, whose 

 b)ranches stretched far and wide and 

 •even touched her window. 



I liked this tree because it gave us a 

 pleasant shade when the sun's rays were 

 inclined to be toO' warm and made us 

 droop and feel so languid and so tired. 

 Delicate, dainty things, as Louise and 

 I, must not have too much sunshine, 

 else we droop and die. 



One day I asked Louise if this tree 

 was old. I knew it was by the many 

 deep furrows in its bark, but I loved 

 the music of her voice so much that I 

 often asked her useless questions that I 

 might lift up my head and listen to its 

 melody. Louise then told me its age 

 and much else that I had never heard. 

 She said that with each returning 

 springtime this tree sent up the life- 

 giving sap from its roots, which ran 

 swiftly through the trunk to the 

 branches. Soon on these branches little 

 red buds appeared, then a bloom and 

 finally leaves, and wonderful little wing- 

 like looking keys which held the seeds 

 of the maple tree. 



These were strange, wonderful things 



for me to hear, but I knew them to be 

 true, because Louise told them to me. 

 No one ever doubted Louise, for all her 

 life long she had worshiped at the altar 

 of truth, and, because of her truthful- 

 ness, her beauty and her goodness, all 

 things loved her. 



Besides giving us moisture and 

 shade, the south wind told me that this 

 same fine old tree held in its forks a 

 home for some little friends of Louise. 

 When the March v/inds left us and the 

 skies became clear and blue and warm, 

 her friends the robins would return to 

 their old home as they had done for 

 many seasons past, and there under her 

 kindly, watchful care would raise their 

 brood of young. 



One day I saw her — I yv^as always 

 watching her — drop a bit of cotton and 

 several strings down from her window. 

 The cotton fell near my bed. I won- 

 dered and wondered why she had done 

 this thing. A long time afterward I 

 was told that it was for the use of 

 Mother Robin in making her nest. 

 Father Robin thanked my dear Louise 

 for her thoughtfulness by singing for 

 her his most beautiful notes at the dawn, 

 the noon-time and the evening. 



I lived in happiness in that quaint old 

 town of Hartwell, caring naught for 

 its bright skies, wide rolling plains, its 

 peaceful waters, its fruits of tree and 

 vine. I was young; I was happy; I 

 lived near Louise ; it was all that I 

 desired. 



I rememl^er — but why should I tell 

 you? I am only a little pansy, born, 

 ])crhaps, for an hour or a day, to bloom 

 and be gathered and die — so the south 

 wind has told me. It must know. ''God 

 gave the flowers and birds and all things 

 for man's use and abuse," so you say; 

 but I had thought it different, for I lived 

 in the sunshine of Louise's love and ten- 



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