JOHN-GO-TO-BED-AT-NOON 817 



To me they are all like that. Look at this 

 celandine, how it shines with joy and starts up to 

 meet you half-way, throwing its arms out for the 

 expected caress 1 And here too is my dear old 

 little white friend, the wild garlic — a whole merry 

 crowd of them by the stone hedge ; happy meeting 

 and happy greeting ! Let me stoop to caress them 

 and inhale their warm breath. It is true there are 

 those who don't like it and take their nice noses 

 away when the flower would be glad to kiss them. 

 But when a flower has no fragrance to it, like the 

 hyacinth and blue columbine of these parts, or even 

 red valerian — Pretty Betsy herself blushing bright 

 pink all over — it does not seem that they love as 

 warmly as the flower with a scented breath — sweet 

 violet and sweet gale and vernal squill and cowslip 

 and many more, down to the water-mint by the 

 stream and my loving little white friend here by 

 the stone hedge. 



And when the first early blooms are gone with 

 March, April, and May, when it is full June, I 

 wade in the lush meadow (when the farmer is not 

 about) to greet and talk to the taller ones, and 

 alas ! to say good-bye to them at the same time, 

 seeing that the mower will soon come to make hay 

 of them. One of the old friends I diligently seek 

 at this season is John, or Johnnie, tall as any there 

 — tall as the flaunting ox-eye daisies. Not that it 

 is a particularly attractive flower; I have never 

 regarded it as pretty, but merely as one of those 

 yellow dandelion - shaped flowers which are so 



