202 THE POETRY OF FLOWERS 
when the minstrel-king wandered through the solitudes of Pa- 
ran, or fields reposing at the foot of Carmel; or, ‘ as it fell on a 
day, that the child of the good Shunamite went out to his fa¬ 
ther to the reapers. And he said unto his father, My head, my 
head ! And he said to a lad, Carry him to his mother. And 
when he had taken him, and brought him to his mother, he 
sat on her knees till noon, and then died.’ (2 Kings, iv. 18-20.) 
Let no one say it is not a season of happiness to the toiling 
peasantry; I know that it is. In the days of boyhood I have 
partaken their harvest labours, and listened to the overflowings 
of their hearts as they sat amid the sheaves beneath the fine 
blue sky, or among the rich herbage of some green headland 
beneath the shade of a tree, while the cool keg plentifully re¬ 
plenished the horn ; and sweet after exertion were the contents 
of the harvest-field basket. I know that the poor harvesters 
are among the most thankful contemplators of the bounty of 
Providence, though so little of it-falls to their share. To them 
harvest comes as an annual festivity. To their healthful frames, 
the heat of the open fields, which would oppress the languid 
and relaxed, is but an exhilarating glow. The inspiration of 
the clear blue sky above, and of scenes of plenty around them ; 
and the very circumstance of their being drawn from their sev¬ 
eral dwellings at this bright season open their hearts, and give 
a life to their memories; and many an anecdote and history 
from ‘ the simple annals of the poor,’ are there related, which 
need only to pass through the mind of a Wordsworth or a 
Crabbe, to become immortal in their mirth or wo.” 
She had passed through the shadow and sunlight of Life, 
She had learned, in its storms, to exult and endure, 
And her gentle reply, with sweet wisdom, was rife— 
“To me — there are none in the universe poor /” 
f. s. o. 
