THE LADIES' FLORAL CABINET. 
343 
The girls who are not named for flowers go by them¬ 
selves. Some are named for rocks, and are called rock- 
girls, and they find some pretty rocks, which they carry, 
each one such a rock as she is named for, or whatever 
she is named for. They can take a branch of sage 
brush, or of rye grass, which have no flower. They go 
marching along, each girl singing of herself, and her 
sweetheart dancing along by her side and making up 
pretty songs about the flowers. I will repeat what we 
say of ourselves: “I, Sarah Winnemucca, am named 
for the Shell-flower such as I wear on my dress. It is 
called somi-toni. My flower is so beautiful! Who will 
come and dance with me while I am so beautiful! I 
shall be beautiful while the earth lasts; and who will 
come and be happy with mein the spirit land ? I shall 
be beautiful forever there. Yes, yes, I shall be more 
beautiful than the shell-flower, my somi-toni. Then 
come, oh come! and dance and be happy with me.” 
The young men make up songs about our flowers as they 
dance outside of us as we march, and we sing them to¬ 
gether. Our parents are waiting for us somewhere to 
welcome us home. And then we praise the sage brush 
and the rye grass that have no flower, and the pretty 
rocks that some are named for, and then present our 
beautiful flowers to those companions who could not 
carry any, and then all are happy, and that closes the 
beautiful day. 
We no longer have this beautiful festival. We are 
not happy enough now. Our mothers do not wish to 
have any more daughters since we are driven from our 
homes, for they cannot be safe or happy even in their 
mothers’ presence. O, good people of the United States, 
give us a home .—Extract from “Indian Life," by Mrs. 
Sarah Winnemucca Hopkins. 
TWO LITTLE LIVES A THOUSAND YEARS APART. 
[Founded upon an anonymous story in MacMillan's Magazine.] 
Placed in my study, relics rare among, 
Brought by my love of ancient lore from Rome, 
Was one ’round which a tender pathos clung— 
A glimpse of love from a long-buried home. 
A tiny crystal urn, and with it laid 
Some toys, a lamp; and by a plate, we see 
These are the ashes of a little maid— 
“ A little daughter loved most tenderly.” 
“ Six years she lived ”—this was recorded there; 
And Lily, our beloved one, fair but frail, 
Who with the others stood beside my chair 
To hear that little stone-recorded tale, 
Lifted her blue eyes, thoughtful, to exclaim— 
And eager, pressing closer to my side— 
“ Papa, our ages are the very same!” 
And to divert her, “ Yes, dear,” I replied. 
“ With the same letter, too, your names commence.” 
But pensive still, her thoughts too deep for play, 
When all the rest had thoughtless scampered hence, 
Still in th'e study did my youngest stay. 
Wistful, she spoke—in each eye stood a tear : 
“ Papa, it seems so pitiful to me, 
That this poor little girl should be left here 
With these queer things—a curiosity.” 
“ My dear, the things so strange to you,” I said, 
“ Were all familiar ones to her, you know." 
“ Papa,” she answered, “ were it I instead, 
You would not want to have me treated so.” 
“ What would you do ?” I asked, with lower tone. 
“ I’d bury her beneath the Willow-tree 
Where all our pets are laid, and on the stone 
Write, ‘ Let the little ones come unto Me.’ ” 
I answered, “ Strange your fancy seems, my dear; 
But you might bring each day some flowers to strow 
Upon the vase ; then if she sees us here,' 
The little act your love for her will show.” 
“ That she will like, I know !” and entering 
At once upon the thought, “ Snowdrops I’ll get; 
And when summer comes again I’ll bring 
To make a wreath, the purple Violet.” 
With childhood’s quick impulsiveness she sped 
Upon her errand ; while a sudden pain 
Fell on my heart, and dim foreboding shed 
At those blithe words, “When summer comes again. 
Laden with flowers, she sat with eager face, 
And wove a wreath with tiny fingers deft; 
Then reverently laid it in its place, 
And clasping hand in hand, the room we left. 
The thought long held her gentle mind. That night 
(So said her mother, filled with anxious fears), 
She dreamed about a little gii-l in white. 
I questioned her ; when, bursting into tears, 
She said : “ Last night a little girl did stand 
Above my bed, and, looking down on me 
With mournful look but kind, stretched out her hand 
Which held a wreath like mine, for me to see.” 
I tried to show her that ’twas but a dream ; 
While meekness caused her silent to remain, 
Her faith in its reality did seem 
To rest unshaken; reason was in vain. 
I saw it grieved her that this child should be 
So different from our loved ones, and the good 
Of my sweet child outweighed all else with me, 
And I resolved to give her what she would. 
“Tell me,” I said again, “What shall we do?” 
Sobbing, she hid her face upon my breast, 
“Papa,” she cried, “I know it’s worth to you.” 
“ Dearest,” I said, “Do I not love you best? 
“ All the antiquities the world can hold 
Are nothing if they cost thy peace of mind; 
It shall be done, dear, all as you have told.” 
“ Papa,” she cried, “ You are so very kind.” 
