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THE STORY OF TRAILING ARBUTUS. 



' But fairer than all flowers, 

 First-horn of sun and showers, 

 Is the Arbutus, jewel of the spring." — H. H. 



ISTEN to the story of the ar- 

 butus, if you would know what 

 it is, where it grows, how and 

 why it finds its way to distant 

 hearts and homes. 



Listen, if you would under- 

 stand the Puritan flower, mod- 

 est, simple and sweet : 



"We belong to a grand old 

 family called ericacae. Botan- 

 its call us Epigcea repens^ be- 

 cause we ' trail upon the earth ; ' but we like best 

 to be called by the prettier name of trailing ar- 

 butus. Among our many cousins we number the 

 laurels, rhododendrons and azaleas, which flourish 

 on your lawns and in your greenhouses. We are 

 kin to the delicate pyrola, the Princess Pine, and 

 the good old-fashioned wintergreen ; but you would 

 not dream that we could also claim the ghostly 

 Indian pipe, that parasitic ne'er-do-well, that ap- 

 pears in June and steals a living for a month or 

 two. 



' ' Let me take you 



" ' * * * on and up, 

 Where Nature's heart 

 Beats strong among the hills ' — 



place you on a grassy knoll sloping gently toward 

 the west ; here is a shallow ravine ; low shrubs are 

 abundant as well as the ground pine. 



"A cry of delight escapes you. Ah ! you see us ! 

 a perfect mat at your feet, rivalling the Persian 

 designs which you think so beautiful. Our pink 

 and white blossoms are half hidden by delicate 

 mosses and our own green and russet leaves. 

 Nothing is quite perfect in this world, they say, 

 and we must own that our leaves are not pretty. 

 They were made for use — to protect our tender 

 buds through the long winter, to breathe for us the 

 strong, invigorating air of early spring, that we may 

 be ready to smile when the warm sun and gentle 

 rains touch us. 



" Fill your basket where you are if you like ; but, 

 as you cannot take us all, why not pick for the 

 best ? 



" Go higher up the hill ; around those little pine 

 trees you may find the largest, sweetest clusters of 



all nestled under the silver threads of last year's 

 grasses. We see a deal of life, for our ' spring 

 opening ' is eagerly looked for by young and old. 



"Troops of merry children come, and our hill 

 rings with the voices of 'glad boys and girls.' 



"We sometimes wonder, when the sky is so blue 

 over our heads and rosy-faced children are picking 

 our blossoms for the tired mothers, who must stay 

 at home, if it is not true that — 



" ' Children and flowers 

 Lie very close to God.' 



Now and then an old man comes to gather a few 

 flowers for a sick grand-child ; he is very old, and 

 his wrinkled hands tremble so as he bends over us 

 that we ■wish for his sake we could grow taller and 

 be more easily picked. 



"A shy young man comes all alone ; he finds the 

 choicest flowers that grow ; we can guess their mis- 

 sion, for though the arbutus 



" ' Looks so shy and innocent, 

 Blushes like a startled thing, 

 Who would think it knew the whole 

 Of the secrets of the spring? ' 



" Sometimes a coy maiden sends us to a distant 

 'friend, 'and we laugh in our sleeves as we hear 

 that ' friend ' say ' his aunt sent them ! ' 



"Real flower lovers come often; for them each 

 time we 



" ' Sing a more wonderful song. 

 Or tell a more marvelous tale.' 



" But there is more prose than poetry in all our 

 lives. Fair skies and gentle breezes will not keep 

 cut-flowers from wilting. We are growing faint 

 and weary, so they hurry home with us, place us in 

 pans of water in a cool, damp cellar, where we drink 

 and drink until we are full of moisture and well 

 equipped for the journey before us. 



"Skillful fingers fashion us into dainty bouquets 

 — flat on one side, remember; then each bunch is 

 sewed, yes, actually sewed to the bottom and sides 

 of a strong pasteboard box ; sprays of damp moss 

 are sprinkled over us ; we are properly done up, 

 and off we go by mail or express. 



" It makes no difference now how roughly we are 

 handled, for we are not beating our rose-colored 

 heads off against the sides of tin boxes. Could you 

 but witness our reception when the box is opened, 

 perhaps in some distant city home, and hear the 

 exclamations of delight as we fill the air with our 

 'strange and wonderful sweetness,' you would un- 



