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displayed, reminded one of all the loveliest objects 
in nature. Every shade of blue, from the pale tint 
of the summer sky, to the deep blue of the deep 
blue sea ; all purples, from the faintest streak upon 
Elysian skies, 
“Ne’er deepening into night,” 
to the richest Tyrian dye of the eastern despot’s 
robe ; the softest flush of pink that arrests the short 
twilight of a tropical evening, and the whole alpha¬ 
bet of the spirit language of the Rose ; the golden 
glory of the evening sun, and the last streak of the 
pale yellow day retreating over the mountain tops— 
spoke from that little patch of ground. 
One day a pink Hyacinth called Mary with her 
sweet odors to come and hear her story, for flowers, 
like all other sentient beings, love to talk of them¬ 
selves to those who love them. Ever since the 
Snow-drop had talked to the little girl, all the 
