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the Rose herself, for June was coming. She could 
speak, too, of the little pink flower that grows upon 
the very snow itself, far up in the northern regions 
where no earth is seen. Its name is Protococcus, 
and it is so very small that the snow and even the 
ice that floats on northern seas, seems covered with 
rosy specks too tiny to be flowers, but sparkling in 
the sun like precious stones. 
As Mary stood listening, she saw that many little 
insects that were amusing themselves with peeping 
into the deep pink flowers, and sunning themselves 
in the rays that were concentrated there, were 
caught fast as if glued to the spot. “ These,” said 
the Rhododendron, “are my prisoners. The warmth 
of their bodies helps to ripen my seeds.” 
Mary turned away from this sight, and now the 
Lily of the Valley rung her silvery-toned bells, and 
threw sweet perfumes at the little flower-lover, to 
