NE OF THE ageless truths voiced in many 
ways in many lands is Emerson’s observa- 
tion that nature belongs to the eyes that 
see it. The Huropean legend of the Schlussel- 
Blume, or Key-flower as Primroses are often 
called there, is a folk tale with the same 
meaning. There are variations to the story 
depending upon the country and the teller, 
but in effect it runs so: 

One day a little boy was drawn by the fragrance and sunni- 
ness of a Cowslip which had escaped his grazing flock. Joy- 
fully picking it he suddenly finds himself before the flower- 
covered door of an enchanted castle which swings gently 
open at the touch of his Key-flower. Before him are many 
vessels containing treasures of gold and jewels and covered 
over with Primroses. Scattering the blossoms right and left 
he fills his pockets with the glittering wealth and prepares 
to leave when a voice says, ““Don’t forget the best.’ He dis- 
cards the chosen gems and, taking more time, selects again 
only to hear once more, “Don’t forget the best.’ Confused, he 
chooses the third time and leaves despite the warning. And 
what happened? The stones he thought so precious were 
only pebbles after all, for his Key-flower, which always 
could have opened the door upon an enchanted world, lay 
forgotten with the other Primroses on the castle floor. 
Those of you who have watched the unfolding buds of 
Primroses in the grey mists and departing snows of winter, 
who have picked their dewy freshness throughout the spring, 
or who have had childhood pleasures and almost-forgotten 
associations quicken in memory have experienced the truth 
of this legend. In every country of Europe, throughout the 
Middle East and into Asia, Primroses are bound round with 
the priceless free treasures of spring, the sounds, sights and 
fragrances of a renewed and refreshed world. “The Prim- 
roses were in flower and the larks were singing. It was a 
still, warm day after rain, and delicious smells came through 
the window—the smell of the gorse and the wild flowers in 
the cottage gardens, the smell of wood smoke and freshly 
turned earth, and rain-washed grass and fresh beginnings.” 
3 
