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. 
“ J He loves me, loves me not/ she cries; 
‘ He loves me more than earth or heaven ! ’ 
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 all 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 
