50 
THE LADIES' FLORAL CABINET. 
summer, its dark-green forming a contrast to the other 
trees around—a picture of powerful growth—or dotting 
the hillsides in the country, its dark color prominent 
against the soft green of the Wild Cherry tree, or its 
trunk serving as a support for the Bitter-sweet and other 
trailing vines. It is with reason that Emerson sings : 
“ Who leaves the Pine tree, 
Leaves his friend. 
Unnerves his strength, 
Invites his end.” 
In the winter the Pine seems like a trusty friend, stretch¬ 
ing out his sheltering arms, a type of strong constancy. 
You think of Bayard Taylor’s “The Palm and Pine,” and 
dream of the swart, bare-armed hewers who built the fleet 
of Eneus of the emerald crowned kings from Ida’s sides, 
and of the rude songs of the Viking rowers as they swept 
over the seas in their ocean steeds, framed from the dark 
tossing Pines of Norway. 
Pleasant are the Pine woods even in the winter time. 
One has a warm, comfortable feeling standing among 
them on the coldest of midwinter days, for their thick 
branches have kept the snow from the brown tasseled 
ground, and the cold winds cannot enter them. The wind 
sighs pleasantly through the leaves, and the piney odors 
are as satisfying as a wafty frankincense and myrrh from 
Araby the Blest. Here and there a stream of sunlight 
comes in making a fiery tinge on the soft brown carpet, 
and we can venture to linger awhile and listen to the story 
the wind is whispering to the Pine. 
Almost as beautiful is the Hemlock, the name we are 
in the habit of giving to the Abies canadensis. Its soft, 
delicate foliage suggests dreams of summer amid deep 
snows. These trees are all cone-bearing, or as the Ger¬ 
mans call them, “needle-trees.” It was one of this family, 
you will remember, that in the folk-lore story wanted to 
change its needles into “ truly ” leaves, like those of the 
Maple and the Oak. Glad enough, however, was the dis¬ 
satisfied tree, if we recollect aright, to receive its needles 
back again, and very much should we miss them if all the 
Pines and Firs and Spruces should choose to give up their 
needles and cones and put on the costume of the other 
trees. We should then have no winter flora, no emerald 
freshness to relieve the sombre brown or the dazzling 
whiteness. The Larch is the only one of this family that 
mimics the other families of trees and sheds its leaves in 
winter. In Canada and New England this tree is known 
as the “ Hackmatack; ” in the Southern and Western 
States it is sometimes called the “ Tamarack.” Its Euro¬ 
pean cousin is one of the most valuable of ornamental 
trees. 
Useful trees are all this family; they are not merely or¬ 
namental, but commend themselves to the most utilitarian 
mind. The wood of the red Cedar is used in the manu¬ 
facture of lead-pencils. The tall Pines on our mountain 
sides again tower aloft in foreign harbors and on distant 
seas. From the white Spruce the Indian cuts his swift 
darting canoe. Our great tanneries are supplied by the 
bark of Larch and Hemlock. Healing balsams are fur¬ 
nished by the Firs. Pitch, resin, balsams—these are the 
spices that flavor our winter flora. 
Fred. Myron Colby. 
THE PILGRIM ROSE. 
FOUNDED UPON FACT. 
I N the spring of 1634 the ship “ Hercules ” sailed from 
England for the newly settled shores of America. 
Many of her passengers were men who, with their fam¬ 
ilies, were leaving their homes to join the Plymouth 
Colony, willing to endure the hardships and privations of 
a new country for the sake of religious liberty. 
Among these was Thomas Besbedge, of Sandwich, a 
man of wealth and position in his own country. With 
him were his wife, six children and three servants. This 
group, as they stood watching the slowly receding shores 
of England, was noticeable chiefly on account of a slen¬ 
der young girl in their midst, who held in her arms a 
flower-pot containing a thrifty rosebush. 
Catherine Besbedge could not have been more than 
thirteen years of age. She had the slim, undeveloped 
figure common to girls of that age, and a small, delicate 
face, with an expression of unusual sweetness and purity. 
Whoever looked at her felt that she was not long for this 
world—not that she looked sickly, but that her beautiful 
soul so predominated over her frail body, that one could 
not imagine that slender shape rounding into woman¬ 
hood, or that delicate face receiving the impress of age 
and experience; one felt intuitively that the lovely and 
sensitive soul would develop and outgrow its earthly cov¬ 
ering, until the latter would fade away and become invisi¬ 
ble. The rosebush was as stout and vigorous as Cath¬ 
erine was slight and fragile, and was covered with buds 
of all sizes, from mere tiny points of green to those 
already bursting into white loveliness. Every day when 
the weather was fair, Catherine brought it on deck, where 
the sun might shine on it, and one by one the buds 
opened. But there was never a full-blown rose on the 
bush, for whenever a bud attained that most perfect con¬ 
dition half way between a bud and a blossom, some one 
on board the “ Hercules ” was sure to become the possess¬ 
or of it, together with one of Catherine’s loveliest smiles. 
If a little child was sick and fretful, and its tired mother 
failed to soothe it, one of Catherine’s half-blown roses 
would find its way into the small hand and turn discom¬ 
fort into pleasure. 
If anyone was oppressed with the burden of past sor¬ 
rows or present hardships, Catherine seemed to divine it 
by some subtle, tender instinct, and offered her rose and 
her sympathy alike unobtrusively. When a poor mother 
died during the voyage it was Catherine who placed in 
the dead fingers one of her fairest rosebuds, and at night 
hushed to sleep with her sweet voice the motherless boy. 
^ The rosebush came to be known all over the ship as 
