RIVER GARDENS; 
double the size they do when in a drier situation, 
and become so beautiful in their tender shades of 
delicate turquoise-blue, enamelled with their deli¬ 
cately small touches of white and arnher at the base of 
the petals, that one can fully understand how the fair 
girl in the German legend longed for those growing 
out of her reach in the broad shallows of the Rhine. 
One can sympathise, too, with the enthusiasm of 
her lover, who, endeavouring to grasp them, lost 
his balance, and fell into the stream; being carried 
away by the treacherous current, still holding the 
coveted flowers in his clenched hand, and flinging 
them to the shore as he sunk, crying, “ Yergeis 
mein nicht!”—Porget-me-not! It was the popular 
name—perhaps thus acquired—which probably in¬ 
duced one of our last Plantagenet kings, Henry V., 
to assume this pretty flower as his badge, instead of 
the Broom, which had been that of his ancestors. 
The name, when so taken, however, as a soldier’s 
motto, was no longer a love-cry, but a shout of 
defiance; and the warlike successes of that victori¬ 
ous leader were such as to make the war-cry, “ Por- 
get me not!” appropriate enough when addressed 
to his enemies. I was about to say more upon the 
subject of the sweet little Porget-me-not and its 
associations, but space forbids. 
22 
