188 
TIIE LADIES' FLORAL CABINET. 
family ! How finely their colors tell, if contrasted with 
the purple of Violets, or the deep blue of wild Hyacinths! 
Oh, those superb, long, bright afternoons of “Auld 
Lang Syne,” when we waded over shoes through the 
marshy runs to get at those cups of shining gold. In 
the memory of most people, the Cowslip is treasured as 
one of the favorite flowers of childhood. 
Yet, this very ornamental little wild-flower has 
scarcely ever had its praises celebrated. Poets rave 
about the Violet on its mossy bank, the pale Primrose, 
even the Daisy, “wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower; ” 
but they pass the Cowslip by without a word, although 
it may brighten their path with a galaxy of golden 
brilliance. I have often thought that its designation 
has something to do with this neglect, that with a more 
euphonius title, the flower would be as popular as its 
rivals. It is true that Shakespeare says: 
“ What’s in a name ! That which we call a Rose, 
By any other name would smell as sweet;” 
but it must be borne in mind that the great dramatist 
makes this silly inquiry and observation to proceed 
from a love-sick young girl, who afterwards finds out 
her mistake. There is necessarily a great deal in a 
name, “ Give a dog a bad name and hang him,” says 
the proverb. Would the insignificant “ Forget-me- 
Not” ever be so universally known but for its romantic 
title ? The word Cowslip is from the Anglo-Saxon 
suslippa, because cows were said to delight in them, or 
as some say, because they resemble the lips of a cow. 
They were also called “Blay-Blobs,” or “Blow-Blobs.” 
Another quaint, half-obsolete name is “Mare-Blob,” 
from the Saxon “mere,” a marsh. The Germans call 
it the “ Sahlusselblume,” or Key-Flower; why, we 
do not know, but it is a better epithet than our own. 
Another ill-used flower is the Dandelion, Leontodon 
Taraxacum, which blooms a little later than the Cow¬ 
slip. Linnaeus has given it a deserved place in the 
horologe of flora. It is one of the plants that may be 
most certainly depended upon as to the hour of opening 
and closing its flowers. The flower, if we will examine 
it, we shall discover it to be fully as handsome as the 
golden Anemone; and it only needs to be as rare to be 
prized as highly. 
“ Tliine full many a pleasing bloom 
Of blossoms lost to all perfume; 
Thine the Dandelion flowers 
Gilt with dew, like sun with showers.” 
How the name brings up the old farm on the hillside, 
with its acres of emerald-green fields, set thick as stars 
are in the sky with the star-rayed Dandelion flowers! 
It was as if the spoils of a Pyrrhus or a Hannibal had 
been spilled when they inarched on their home coming 
from their victorious campaigns; or as if some lavish 
hand had scattered, broadcast, rich golden coin-eagles 
more potent than those of imperial Rome. I shut my 
eyes and see again that hillside turf, with the hedge- 
crowded fence where a thrush was building her nest, 
and the golden Dandelion (dent de lion) was swaying 
and nodding in the gay June breeze! To my good 
mother they were only “greens,” but to me they were 
riches and glory, such as the treasury of Croesus never 
had for Alcmaeon the Athenian. 
What child has not held Buttercups under his com¬ 
panion’s chin, “ to see if you love butter ?” This plant, 
of the order Polygynia and boasting the botanical name 
of Ranunculus TEris, calls up many a scene of old 
school days. There was a meadow where we used to 
gather Buttercups, close to the little red school-iiouse 
in the valley. What a vision of the new summer that 
almost dazzling meadow was when the Buttercups 
were out! One would have thought King Midas had 
been walking the fields over night, so brilliant, so 
golden was the spectacle. Excellent are all its names, 
Buttercup, King’s Cup, Golden Cup—imperial sounds, 
indicative of the regal stateliness as well as the yellow 
color of the flower. Shakespeare mentions it as the 
Cuckoo-flower in King Lear. 
“ Nettles, Cuckoo-flowers, 
Darnell, and all the wild weeds.” 
The farmers and the farmer’s wives call it a weed, 
but are not all flowers weeds in a sense ? and surely the 
Buttercup in its stately queenlike grace, and its rich 
golden beauty, is not the least of Flora’s offerings. 
Yet the plant is not popular, and Clare, the English 
poet, alludes to its ungrateful qualities in some lines on 
the “ Eternity of Nature,” detailing his morning walk, 
he says: 
“ I wander out and rhyme; 
What hour the dewy morning’s infancy 
Hangs on each blade of grass and every tree, 
And sprents the red thighs of the humble bee, 
Who ’gins betimes unwearied minstrelsy; 
AVho breaiifasts, dines, and most divinely sups, 
With every flower save golden Buttercups, 
On whose proud bosoms he will never go, 
But passes by with scarcely ‘how do you do,” 
Since in their showy, shining, gaudy cells, 
Haply the summer’s honey never dwells.” 
The plant contains many virulent qualities which are 
said to affect cattle, especially sheep, and particularly 
the root, which has the property of inflaming and blis¬ 
tering the skin. F. M. Colby. 
SIX LITTLE WORDS. 
Six little words lay claim to me each passing day— x 
I ought, I must, I can, I will, I dare, I may. 
I Ought: That is the law God on my heart has written, 
The mark for which my soul is with strong yearning 
smitten. 
I Must: That is the bound set either side the way 
By nature and the world, so that I shall not stray. 
I Can : That measures out the power entrusted me 
Of action, knowledge, art, skill and dexterity. 
I Will: No higher crown on human head can rest; 
'Tis freedom’s signet seal upon the soul impressed. 
I Dare is the device which on the seal you read 
By freedom’s open door—a bolt for time of need. 
I May among them all hovers uncertainly ; 
The moment must at last decide what it shall be. 
I ought, I must, I can, I will, I dare, I may— 
The six lay claim to me each hour of every day. 
Teach me, O God! and then, then shall I know each day 
That which I ought to do, must, can, will, dare and 
may .—Wisdom of the Brahmin. 
