117 
them. How I love to play with the wind ! I wish 
I was down on the ground—will you put me down ? 
What have they done to me ? Oh, look at those 
butterflies among my dear sisters ! and there is a 
golden Robin sipping honey from their nectaries. 
I saved all mine for him this morning. Do not 
carry me away—where is the Sun?—Oh, what is 
the matter with me?” And then the once happy 
flower fainted away, and Mary tried in vain to re¬ 
vive her. If she could have reached home in time, 
a little warm water would have restored her beauty 
for a while, but the thread of life had been snapped 
and she was quite dead. Just before she breathed 
her last she pressed Mary’s hand with one of her 
pretty fingers and whispered, “ do not eat my flow 
ers for they will poison you.” Mary determined 
to pluck no more, but to let them enjoy life in their 
own way, till their little spirits took flight as their 
