Kitobni o'qish: «The Nursery, November 1873, Vol. XIV. No. 5», sahifa 6

STORY OF A DAISY

Deep down in a snug little dell, beneath a high bank, near the roadside, grew a wild daisy. It had braved the snow and ice of winter, and was now putting forth its leaves to the soft breezes and blue skies of spring.

One day a party of boys and girls came to play near the daisy-plant's home; and she thought she would surely be trampled on and killed. But the children at last went away, and daisy-plant breathed freely once more.

But it was not long before she heard a child's voice cry, "Papa, papa, I can run down this bank. Let me run down this bank all by myself, dear papa." And, before papa could say Nay, down ran little Emma Vincent, and stood close beside daisy-plant.

"Oh, look at this darling daisy, only look, papa!" cried Emma; and in one little minute the child's finger and thumb had tight hold of the young daisy-plant's only flower.

Tremble, now, daisy-plant; one little nip, and your beauty and pride will be gone. But something else than this was in store for poor daisy-plant. "I'll not gather the flower," said Emma. "The whole plant shall go into my garden, papa, just as it is."

Daisy-flower did not know its danger then, or maybe it would have shut up its eye, and hung down its head, for very fear. But, instead of this, it looked up as boldly as a modest daisy well could into the little girl's face.

So the whole plant was taken up by its roots; and Emma bore it carefully home, and with the aid of John, the gardener's boy, set it out nicely in her little flower-bed.

Emma took great care of daisy-plant, watering it at night, and protecting it from the hot sun at noon. Soon it began to thrive as bravely as in its own native dell. It was very happy, and could spare a flower or two without missing them so very much.

But one day, when she returned from a week's visit to her aunt, Emma missed her darling daisy-plant. "O papa!" cried she, "somebody has taken it away,—my precious daisy."

Yes, a new gardener's boy, who had thought that it was a weed, had pulled it up, and thrown it, he could not tell where. It was hard to comfort Emma. Such a beautiful flower it seemed in her eyes! And she had found it, and put it in her own garden, and watched it and watered it so carefully!

And what had become of poor daisy-plant? Had it withered and perished? No, no! daisy-plants don't give up life and hope so easily as that. Daisy-plant was safe yet, though it had been thrown on a heap of rubbish.

The next day papa came in with something he had covered with a handkerchief. Emma took away the handkerchief, and clapped her hands for joy. "My own dear daisy," she said: "yes, I am sure it is the same. Thank you, dear papa!"

Yes, papa had found it on the rubbish, had washed it from dirt, and clipped off its broken leaves, and put it into a pretty little flower-pot with some fine rich mould; and there was daisy as brisk and bright as ever.

Summer passed away, and autumn came, and Emma was as fond as ever of her dear plant. But Mrs. Vincent, Emma's mother, had been very ill, and Dr. Ware had cured her.

One day, while Emma was in the parlor with her father and mother, Dr. Ware came in.

"I need not come again," he said: "I am here now to say good-by. You will not want any more of my medicines."

Then Emma's papa thanked Dr. Ware very much for the skill and care which he had shown in the case; and Emma's mother said, "I hope to show you some day how grateful I am, Dr. Ware."

"What can I do to let him know how much I thank him?" thought Emma. "I will give him my little daisy-plant," said she. So she took it to Dr. Ware; and he was so much pleased, that he took her on his knee and kissed her. But I am not sure that a little tear did not drop on Daisy-flower, as Emma put it into the doctor's hand.

WINIFRED WATERS

2.

 
Send her to the sandy plains,
In the zone called torrid;
Send her where it never rains,
Where the heat is horrid.
Mind that she has only flour
For her daily feeding;
Let her have a page an hour
Of the driest reading.
 

3.

 
When the poor girl has endured
Six months of this drying,
Winifred will come back quite cured,
Let us hope, of crying.
Then she will not day by day
Make those mournful faces,
And we shall not have to say,
"Wring her pillow cases."