THE LADIES' FLORAL CABINET. 
115 
pretty crisp blossoms, drying them on the attic floor. 
They wore very beautiful when all were gathered, and 
the bright, fresh petals well opened and dried. A great 
rustling, gorgeous heap. There they lay, under the 
wide garret rcof, pure white and delicate creamy blos¬ 
soms, some flushed with gold in their centers, hardly 
discernible from tiny, dewy, Pond-Lilies, only the 
fragrance was wanting. 
Then there were great, burning, yellow blossoms, 
shading from daintiest buff to deep golden-red hues, 
glowing in the heap like live coals. Flowers, beautiful 
starry flowers, everywhere on that attic floor under 
the south windows. Gay, crisp, dwarf roses, rolling 
hero and there from the bright heap. Pink and crim¬ 
son, blood-red and scarlet, garnet and wine-stained, with 
curling lip-like petals. Rare shades of maroon and brown, 
russett and lichen tinged, while here and there was a 
blossom fairly black with riclmessand beauty, so drugged 
was it with Nature's coloring. 
Scarcely a day passed but Lizzie found time, and that 
only, to climb the garret stairs and look on her treas¬ 
ures; spreading them, heaping them with careful, lov¬ 
ing touch, and planning ways or designs for utilizing 
them. 
November came, and with it the closing of the fall 
term of her school, and the finishing of many household 
duties, so Lizzie was at liberty to execute her long- 
waiting plans. 
In the woods she gathered quantities of moss. Great, 
lovely, feathery mats of it, ruthlessly tearing them up 
from their luxuriant growths on knolls and decaying 
logs. Mats of living green; mats of brown, hairy cups; 
mats of waving, minute ferns; mats of brown and 
black lichens, and mats of brittle, foamy, gray mosses, 
she laid in her baskets, heaping them full, her apron 
and arms also, and then looked at the lovely carpeting 
spread over every rock, and knoll, and fallen trunk 
in that messy nook in the woods, and wished she could 
carry more. 
She spread the moss to dry in the garret, also, and 
when its moisture seemed evaporated, she carried a 
kettle of boiling water, an old tin pan, and two pack¬ 
ages of the Diamond dyes, green and brown, into the 
garret, one day, and dyed all the moss. 
By varying the strength of the dyes, she obtained 
shades of green and brown from light to darkest, and 
when spread on boards to dry, the results were 
beautiful. 
When her Mother questioned her as to what she was 
going to do with all that trash in the garret, she would 
gayly answer, ‘‘Wait, Mother; you just wait and see.” 
The lengthening evenings she spent in fashioning 
from newspapers, patterns for designs, crosses, ovals, 
harps, anchors, and horse-shoes. From stout briscol- 
board and thin wood, she cut and whittled out these 
designs. It was too cold to work in the attic, so into her 
own warm chamber she carried her baskets of moss and 
flowers, a big pot of glue and her foundations of paste¬ 
board and wood. She covered these with moss, glueing 
it firmly in position and arranging the colors and 
shades of color to suit her taste. Wreaths, picture 
frames, letters for mottoes, horse-shoes, moss plaques 
and crosses, grew swiftly under her deft, skillful fingers. 
As soon as a design was covered with moss, she finished 
it by adding here and there bright flowers. Sometimes, 
a little group in each corner of a picture-frame; some¬ 
times starring a wreath with bright blossoms; some¬ 
times finishing a beautiful cross of dark green, feather ' 
moss, the feathers so large and distinct, they seemed 
more like graceful, perfect, little ferns, with tiny, 
pure white Pond Lilies. 
When her moss was exhausted, she mounted some of 
the short-steiv med flowers that remained on wire 
stems, and made a number of bright bouquets, using 
pressed ferns, and drooping dried glasses to relieve 
their stiffness. When all was finished, her room looked 
like the bower of some wood-nymph. She packed the 
wreaths, frames, etc., in a large trunk, carefully laying 
paper and straw about each one to prevent its being 
crushed. 
A friend, who was about returning to her home in a 
large city, had promised to cany the trunk with her, 
and deliver it to the proprietor of a large holiday-gift 
establishment, who was to pay her what the fresh, rus¬ 
tic, Christmas decorations were worth to him. 
Those were long days of suspense for Lizzie. A week 
passed and she received no word from her friend in the 
city. 
Two weeks, and that meant two more Sundays, in 
which her Mother wore to church the same rusty old 
alpaca, torturing her own, as well as her daughter's 
keen sense of beauty and fitness. The thud Sunday 
was nearing, rapidly, and Lizzie was in the spare cham¬ 
ber, this time, crying over her disappointment in not 
receiving any word from her moss, and over her Mothers 
shabby' dress. She had come up stairs with her scissors, 
with the forlorn hope she could rip loops and old- 
fashioned puffs, here and there, making the garment 
not quite so noticeably out of date, but faded breadths, 
and fragged creases forbade. She saw the dress could 
not possibly be renovated. 
From the foot of the stairs, her Mother called, cheerily, 
“Lizzie, the express boy has brought you a package 
from the office. Come down.” And Lizzie went down 
with a hop and a skip. Together they opened the big 
brown-paper parcel. Lizzie, all in a flutter of im¬ 
patience and hope, and her Mother, with interested 
curiosity. 
A soft, black cashmere dress, trimmed with satin 
folds and bands, plain, but rich and stylish, was un¬ 
folded, the kind work of the friend, who. under some 
pretence, had secured Mrs. Dane’s measure. Besides 
the elegant, perfect-fitting dress, there was satin suffi¬ 
cient for a handsome bonnet, and a delicate creamy lace 
tie, all purchased by the money received from Lizzie’s 
moss and flowers. 
How proud the loving daughter was of her graceful, 
pretty Mother, when dressed in her new suit. She 
hovered about her, adding here and there little artistic 
touches to drapery and fold, explaining as fast as she 
could, how the dress came to be purchased. 
The Saturday's baking was forgotten. The old alpaca 
lay crumpled in a heap on the floor, unnoticed, where 
Lizzie had dropped it in her haste to open her package, 
while Mrs. Dane stood speechless with astonishment 
and thankfulness, the glad, happy tears in her eyes, 
fondly watching her daughter as she chattered and 
fluttered about her. Clarissa Potter. 
