140 AN INDIAN LEGEND. 



Maiden, who with tender eye, 



Watchest where the flowrets die, 



Blessed art thou, for thy heart 



Scorns to seek a lowly part, 



Human love may never win 



Soul that knows not earthly sin, 



Human love is born for weeping, 



Rest thee then where flowers are sleeping. 



As the melody floated off" upon the breeze Mo-na-wing 

 awoke. A tiny branch of the wild rose, with its sharp thorns 

 and blossomed spray, was lying upon her bosom, and then the 

 maiden knew that the gentle Manitto of flowers had appeared 

 to her. From that moment she considered herself under the 

 especial guardianship of the sweet spirit. The love of flowers 

 which had been only a girlish fancy, became a passion with 

 her, and while her simple offerings were daily presented to the 

 good being who now watched over her, she rejoiced to behold 

 the manifestations of his continual care in the blossoms which 

 seemed ever to surround her path. Wherever she went, she 

 still found herself amid flowers ; and beauty was imparted to 

 every spot gladdened by her presence ; for where her foot 

 fell, there were sure to be seen bright and fragrant flowers 

 springing up in the tiny print of her beaded moccassin. 



Mo-na-wing was very happy, for her heart was pure, and 

 her pleasures were the most sinless of all earth's joys. She 

 had but to think of a flower when it was laid at her feet, and 

 when she sat in the lonely dell where she now passed many 

 of her hours, a single heart-warm wish was sure to bring the 



