“ THEY THAT ARE PURE IN SPIRIT.” 197 
man, Polydorus, here murdered with many arrows from 
which a bush has grown, nourished with my blood.” 
In the month of April, 1775, a handsome young English 
soldier was laid to rest on American soil, and a great and 
imaginative mind pictures how a stately flower took root 
in the bed of crime and, in due time, covered the mound. 
“ Day after day the strange crimson flower bloomed more 
and more abundantly, until it seemed almost to cover the 
little hillock, which became a mere bed of it, apparently 
turning all its capacity of production to this flower ; for 
the other plants, Septimius thought, seemed to shrink 
away, and give place to it, as if they were unworthy to 
compare with the richness, glory, and worth of this their 
queen. The fervent summer burned into it, the dew and 
the rain ministered to it; the soil was rich, for it was a 
human heart contributing its juices—a heart in its fiery 
youth sodden in its own blood, so that passion, unsatisfied 
loves and longings, ambition that never won its object, 
tender dreams, and throbs, angers, lusts, hates, all concen¬ 
trated by life, came sprouting in it, and its mysterious be¬ 
ing, and streaks and shadows had some meaning in each 
of them.” 
The flower that was real to me was the Sanguinaria, 
Red Puccoon or Red Indian Paint, and was much used by 
the Indian to stain his person and utensils. Since the 
brave fight made by the young farmers against the Indians 
in 1745, its star-scattered hosts have clothed the New 
England battlefield. The arrow heads have long ago sunk¬ 
en into the earth, peace has fallen upon it, and in the pure 
white blossoms time has hallowed the strife and sorrow, 
if never healed. 
And if the name Sanguinaria or Bloodroot has been ap¬ 
plied to this flower, perhaps not inappropriately, though 
the highly colored sap which exudes from stem and root is 
bright orange rather than crimson, yet not so much of in- 
