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LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
and the crimson flush of the hardy Heath had faded 
from its cheek, they whispered that the solemn 
Autumn was at hand; for a thousand varied hues 
proclaimed that the funeral pyre of Summer was 
kindled, and all her flowers faded away to the ashy 
grey, which only remains behind, when all her 
beauty is extinguished. 
Then Childhood sallied forth, with merry shout 
and happy heart, and ran, until it was- compelled to 
stop through sheer weariness, to and fro among the 
unnumbered flowers ; shaking off, in its eager flight, 
the loosened silver from the Daisy, and the dusty 
gold from the deep yellow of the Buttercup. Young 
lovers only numbered the many happy meetings 
they had had together by the days which the milk- 
white Hawthorn remained in blossom, and the 
many times they had heard the song of the cuckoo, 
while seated beneath its fragrant shade. Old Age 
dated the years it had lived by recalling how many 
times it had seen the Wild Bose blow, and wandered 
forth to gather the spotted blossoms of the golden 
Cowslip. They kept their records of marriages by 
the flowers which then bloomed, and the solemn 
memory of the dead by the fragrant blossoms which 
they showered upon their graves. They recalled 
their joys and sorrows by the seasons, and dated 
their success or adversity by the coming in or going 
out of the flowers. Not that the flapping of Time’s 
