fortunes by means of this simple 

 flower, the French demoiselle as well 

 as her cousin across the Rhine having 

 their own particular rhymes. 



Lowell's pretty lines, "With a 

 Pressed Flower," tell the story. 



" This little blossom from afar 



Hath come from other hands to thine ; 

 For, once, its white and drooping star 

 Could see its shadow in the Rhine. 



" Perchance some fair-haired German maid 

 Hath plucked one from the selfsame stalk, 

 And numbered over, half afraid. 

 Its petals in her evening walk. 



" ' He lOves me, loves me not,' she cries; 

 ' He loves me more than earth or heavftn ! ' 

 And then glad tears have filled her eyes 

 To find the number was uneven. 



" And thou must count its petals well. 

 Because it is a gift from me ; 

 And the last one of ail shall tell 

 Something I 've often told to thee. 



" But here at home, where we were born, 

 Thou wilt find blossoms just as true, 

 Down-bending every summer morn 

 With freshness of New England dew. 



" For Nature, ever kind to love, 



Hath granted them the same sweet tongue. 

 Whether with German skies above, 

 Or here our granite rocks among." 



169 



