r 
THE POETRY OF FLOWERS 
138 
Weary at last — she sighed out^ while 
Her brow began to wrinkle, 
With desperate tone and sleepy smile 
“ Good night, my Periwinkle!” 
f. s. o. 
JUSTICE SHALL BE DONE YOU. 
SWEET-SCENTED TUSSILAGE, OR COLTSFOOT. 
Genius, hid under a modest appearance, strikes not the eyes 
of the vulgar. But if the glance of an enlightened judge chan¬ 
ces to observe it, its strength is immediately revealed, and it 
receives the admiration of those whose stupid indifference had 
not observed it. A young Dutch miller, having a taste for 
painting, amused himself, in his leisure hours, by representing 
the landscapes amid which he lived. The mill, the cattle of j 
his master, the beautiful verdure, clouds, smoke, light and 
shade, were all portrayed with an exquisite truth. As soon as 
a picture was finished, he took it to a colour-dealer, who gave 
him its value in materials to produce another. One feast-day, 
the innkeeper of the place, wishing to ornament the hall where 
he received his guests, bought two of these pictures. A cele¬ 
brated painter stopped at his inn, and, admiring the truth of the 
landscapes, offered and gave a hundred florins for that which 
had not cost a crown, and promised, at the same time, to take 
all the artist could produce. Thus the reputation of the painter 
was established, and his fortune made. As wise as happy, he 
never forgot his dear mill; we find the representation of it in 
all his pictures, which are so many masterpieces. Who would 
believe that plants have the same fate as men, and that they 
require a patron to appreciate them ? 
