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pretty bower, and they looked bright and happy 
together there, as if they did not know that before 
night they would all wither and die. 
A bright form presided, whose brows were 
wreathed with Mountain Laurel, and as Mary 
gazed upon the open chalice of the flower, the 
slender filaments sprang from their lurking places to 
dash the pollen upon the expecting stigma. It was 
Flora, goddess of flowers, who held in her hand 
a crown of her own weaving, which she lightly 
dropped on the head of her favorite child, for Mary 
was to be Queen of May. 
The happy Queen threw herself down, to rest 
for a few moments, under a tall Hawthorn that 
stood near the entrance of the bower. 
“ Are you going to die ?” said the flower, and as 
she spoke, she showered her with white blossoms, 
as if she meant to cover her over. The child started 
