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climbed every hillock which the fresh breezes 
visited. 
Mary shouted for joy. “ Oh here they are, all 
blooming ready for me,” cried the little girl. 
“ Mother, do you think they will tell me a story ?” 
and she threw herself upon the ground to catch the 
first accents of the flower-speech. 
A little blue-eyed Violet looked up into Mary’s 
eyes, and thought two large and beautiful Violets 
were looking down into hers. She was half hidden 
in the brown grass of the former year, but seemed 
to be happy in that lowly place, and not to envy her 
gay companions, the Anemones, who were dancing 
in the soft wind, with their, pink and white gar¬ 
ments on. 
“ I can tell you nothing,” said the modest Violet, 
in a low sweet tone, “ but what happens down here 
in the grass. It was a long time since [ had seen 
