spears. These she melts to golden flakes which she scatters by 
handfuls in the groves and turns by magic into the clear, 
yellow, delicately perfumed flower clusters of the Golden 
Banner. Before their flaunting splendor is gone from the 
grove gardens, the Columbines are there, balanced like ethereal, 
sky-tinted butterflies poised for a fleeting moment in the still 
air, and turning their blue and white perfection to follow the 
sun's course. This is their story. 
Early one morning the Grove Spirit found in one of her 
brook pools a wonderful tint of overhead blue the dawn-flush 
had just softened, not really changed to mauve. She cut a 
five pointed star and dyed it with this blue. Then, in between 
each point, she fitted a tiny bit of a white cloud fieck she found 
caught at the edge of the pool. She rounded one end of each 
white petal and twirled the other to a tapering point with a 
drop of nectar down in the very tip. With a golden pollen 
brush for a center, a long, slender stem, and deep-notched, 
dainty leaves she completed the Mountain Columbine, an 
exquisite flower, diligent and thrifty, wholly unconscious of 
its own loveliness. 
The delicate Columbine's antithesis is the haughty Red 
Lily that blossoms at the same time, growing only when and 
where it pleases, recking little of home-making and seed- 
culture. Its molten hot, jewel-bright color came from the 
brilliant red and gold of autumn. The Aspen Spirit loves her 
leaf and berry colors of that flaming time. So she fused them 
to make just one glowing summer blossom which she set to 
shine out gorgeous and aloof in the cool, close shade of mid- 
summer. Then, in sudden reaction from such daring coloring, 
the Spirit took the creamy white from the edge of a billowy 
summer cloud and made the cool Mariposa Lily. She brushed 
it over lightly with the misty purple from the twilight haze 
over the hills. The purple was moist and ran down the leaves, 
making bands of royal color near the lily's heart. A bee 
came and left fuzzy yellow pollen dusted in the purple. The 
Aspen Spirit liked it just that way, and set it as it was in a 
sunny, open-place among her trees. 
Once the Grove Spirit came upon a strange, closed glass 
house a man had built in a valley where the Aspens grew. She 
peeped in and pitied the captive plants she saw there. Some 
lovely, pale flowers of strange shapes and colors caught her 
attention and she stared at them for a long time. At last she 
slipped away laughing softly to herself. Next evening she 
gathered a great poolful of sunset colors. With bright yellow 
and mottled green, she made yellow Lady's Slippers and 
scattered them with gay prodigality high on rocky slopes 
where the Aspens grew sparsely. Then, with tender mauves 
and ruddy purples, she made a very little copy of the loveliest 
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