Joan Silver-pin 
3 2 3 
these sights and scents to me. The grandfather and 
his wife, when they were young, as when they were 
in middle age, and when they were old, walked every 
early spring day at set of sun, slowly down the front 
path, looking at every flower, every bud ; pulling 
a tiny weed, gathering a choice flower, breaking a 
withered sprig; and they ever lingered long and 
happily by my side. And he always said, ‘ Wife ! 
isn’t this Crown-imperial a glorious plant ? so stately, 
so perfect in form, such an expression of life, and 
such a personification of spring! ’ Wes, father,’ she 
would answer quickly, c but don’t pick it.’ Why, I 
should have resented even that word had she referred 
to my perfume. She meant that the garden border 
could not spare me. The children never could pick 
me, even the naughtiest ones did not dare to ; but 
they could pull all the little upstart Ladies’ Delights 
and Violets they wished. And yet, with all this fam- 
ily homage which should make me a family totem, 
here I am, stuck down by the barn— I, who sprung 
from the blood of a king, the great Gustavus Adol- 
phus — and was sung by a poet two centuries ago in 
the famous Garland of Julia . The old Jesuit poet 
Rapin said of me, c No flower aspires in pomp and 
state so high.’ 
“ Read this page from that master-herbalist, John 
Gerarde, telling of the rare beauties within my golden 
cup. 
“ A very intelligent and respectable old gentleman 
named Parkinson, who knew far more about flowers 
than flighty folk do nowadays, loved me well and 
wrote of me, c The Crown-imperial, for its stately 
