THE LADIES’ FLORAL CABINET. 
51 
the Pilgrim Rose, and the possession of one of its beauti¬ 
ful buds was looked upon as a token of tender sympathy 
for some grief or hardship. There were not a few home¬ 
sick hearts on board the “ Hercules," and among them all 
pretty Catherine Besbedge moved like an unspoken bene¬ 
diction. Perhaps there was no one for whom she felt a 
deeper commiseration than for the cabin-boy: he was 
always busy, often at work far too heavy for his strength, 
and was kicked, cuffed and beaten by captain, mates and 
sailors until life was to him but a wretched burden. One 
night, after a severe and unmerited beating, the boy stood 
leaning over the rail and looking into the sea; he won¬ 
dered if the dark waters were any colder than the hearts 
of men, or if the finny monsters in their depths were any 
more cruel than the rough sailors. The sea seemed 
drawing him down, his own burdened heart seemed press¬ 
ing him down, and he stretched out his arms to the waves 
and soon all would have been over—but just then Cath¬ 
erine stood beside him, and a white, fragrant rosebud was 
laid in his hand, and a sweet smile shone on him, and a 
few hopeful words rang like heavenly music in his ears. 
It was soon whispered about that the cabin-boy had 
received one of the Pilgrim Roses. The news sank into 
the hearts of the sailors more deeply than the sharpest 
rebuke, and not a hand was lifted against the boy again 
during the voyage. 
Catherine flitted about from one part of the ship to 
another, never in the way, always quiet and shy, but 
smiling and pure; and wherever she went the sailor’s 
grog was left untasted, the oath smothered before spoken 
and the angry impulse banished before it became an act; 
it was as if she created about her an atmosphere of good¬ 
ness and purity in which sin could not live. 
Among the passengers was Lois Ripley, a girl of 
eighteen, who, in the care of her uncle’s family was com¬ 
ing to America to be married. Her lover, to whom she 
had been betrothed when scarcely older than Catherine, 
had come two years previously, and now anxiously 
awaited her arrival. The two girls were much together, 
and a warm affection sprang up between them before the 
voyage ended. 
Just before they landed, Catherine gathered her last 
rose for a sick sailor, and Lois, who was watching her, 
said, a little sadly: 
“ I had hoped there would be one for my wedding 
day.” 
“ It is a monthly Rose, dear Lois.” said Catherine, “ but, 
in truth, it blossoms a great part of the time ; see ! there 
are already new buds forming; if you will but wait a 
little you shall have them all.” 
“ I shall willingly wait,” answered Lois ; “ methinks a 
Pilgrim Rose would add a blessing to my wedding. You 
love the rosebush dearly, do you not, Catherine ? ” 
“ I do, indeed, Lois ; to me it is a bit of dear England ; 
it is English soil that fills the pot, and an English rose 
that thrives therein, and it is all of the dear old home that 
will ever gladden my eyes again,” answered Catherine, 
sadly. 
The little company landed at Scituate, and a few weeks 
later Lois wore Pilgrim Roses at her wedding. Many of 
the settlers had brought with them flower-seeds from 
their old homes, but Catherine’s rose was the only one 
in Scituate, and it grew and thrived in its new home as 
cheerfully as in the old. 
But Catherine drooped and faded. The hardships of a 
settler’s life bore too heavily on one so delicate and sen¬ 
sitive. The rude wilderness was too unlike the blossom¬ 
ing hedgerows and smiling fields of her old home to win 
her love. The coarse and scanty food which her buxom 
brothers and sisters ate with relish and thankfulness, 
Catherine scarce could swallow. She did not know that 
she was homesick, only Mrs. Besbedge, with that clearer 
vision that comes with mother-love, knew of what disease 
her child was dying. And there was no remedy. One 
day after Catherine had grown too weak to leave her bed, 
she asked her mother to bring the rosebush that she 
might see if it was budding. There was one small bud 
on it. “Will it open for me, mother?" asked Catherine, 
wistfully. “ It has blossomed for so many. I would 
that it might blossom for me this once ! ” 
Sweet Catherine, in all her thirteen years she had never 
before been known to think of self! 
The bud did open for her, and when they laid her in 
her early grave, it was clasped in her thin, dead hand. 
After Catherine’s death, the rosebush she had so loved 
was carefully tended by her mother and sisters. It was 
planted on her grave in summer and safely housed in 
winter. 
After a few years Thomas Besbedge grew restless ; he 
had left houses and lands in England, and the rude homes 
of the new country scarcely contented him. He bought 
a house and land in Duxbury. It was autumn when 
they moved ; the weather had been mild, and the rose¬ 
bush had not been taken from Catherine’s grave. The 
night before they were to start for their new home the 
mother said: 
“ We must take up the Pilgrim Rose.” 
“ I like not to take it away from our Catherine's grave,” 
said Elisha, the eldest son. 
“ I, too, would fain leave it there, my son,” replied the 
mother, “but it soon would die of the cold, and truly 
our Catherine herself would far rather it should bloom 
for the living.” 
“ Methinks you are right, mother,” and I will fetch it 
in the morning, though it will grieve me sorely.” 
And in the early morning Elisha went to the grave of 
the beloved girl, but in the flower-pot were only a few 
bare and shrunken sticks and a handful of shriveled 
leaves. 
The cold had been more severe than they knew, and 
the Pilgrim Rose was dead. 
Mrs. Susie A. Bisbee. 
/ 
Flowers are not trifles, as might be known from the of the old gray granite, and harmonize with their surround- 
care with which every one is finished. They fringe the ings. Murderers do not ordinarily wear roses in their but- 
borders of mountain winters, grace the pulseless breast ton-holes. Villains seldom train vines over cottage-doors. 
