"Tis Flora's page:—in every place, The name of this flower is very expressive of its character; for it is truly the day's eye, opening freshly to the rising sun, and slowly closing towards evening when the dew begins to fall: Before the stars are in the sky, The daisy goes to rest, And folds its little shining leaves And so it sleeps in dewy night Then, with the songs of early birds, The daisy is what is called a compound flower. That which appears to be but a single flower is really composed of a great number of tiny flowerets, each perfect and beautiful in itself. If you pull one to pieces, you will find that each little yellow knob in the centre is a small flower; and so is each of the rays of the rosy-tipped silver fringe. Indeed altogether it is a wonderful piece of workmanship; and none but He who 'arched the skies,' could 'rear the daisy's purple bud,'— Mould its green cup, its wiry stem; Its fringed border nicely spin; And fling it, unrestrained and free, Robert Burns wrote some very beautiful lines on a daisy, which he turned up with his plough : Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Thou bonnie gem. Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, When upward-springing, blithe, to greet Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane. The flower usually associated with the daisy is the buttercup, so called from the popular notion that it gives that rich tinge and flavour to butter which we notice in May, when the open meadows are literally buried alive with these flowers. At that time, if you stoop down and run your eye along a field, you see nothing but a sheet of flaming gold, eclipsing the green of the grass. Cows will not touch this flower, so that the notion respecting the butter is an erroneous one. Eliza Cook, writing about buttercups and daisies, says : Smile, if you will, but some heart-strings The turf-sod o'er me, plant my grave PART IV. THE COWSLIP, AND OTHER FLOWERS. WHEN spring has fairly come, all young people in the country look out for the cowslips, which now lift their nodding heads, and begin to unfold their clustering petals. Few wild flowers excel the cowslip. Wherever it abounds its name is always associated with thoughts of joy and sweetness. What a happy time for children when they ramble across green fields richly enamelled with its tasselled blossoms, gathering large handfuls, and filling baskets to the brim with those sweet-smelling flowers! Well has Mary Howitt said : Oh! fragrant dwellers of the lea, A cowslip gathering is not only a charming occupation to those engaged in it, but it is also a profitable one from the wine-making that follows. Of course our country friend Dick, so fond of flowers as he is, does not forget the cowslips. And so we are told that When the warm weather sets in, Dick has an eye to the cowslips, and he goes to work on them at a wholesale rate. First, he cuts a couple of hazel-rods, a good inch thick, and splits them down from the top to within a few inches of the bottom. Each being four feet in length, will hold twenty pounds of cowslips, picked in handfuls; and the handfuls are laid one upon another, right and left, within the cleft of the stick. Forty pounds is a good day's picking, and as much as master Dick can comfortably carry. When the sticks are full, and the gaping ends tied up, he shoulders his burdens and marches off with them. Mother sets all the children to work, picking out the pips into cups and basins, to make cowslip wine; and a delightfully fragrant operation it is, and a delightful dissonance of juvenile tongues accompanies it. Then, when the pips are in the pot, the poor blind flowers are strung upon lengths of twine, and tied up in 'tisty-tosties,' to serve till they are withered, and long afterwards, as balls and playthings for the children. As for Dick, he is not content with a blind tosty, but makes one as big as his head, of the finest full-blown flowers, for his special enjoyment. Thomson connects the nightingale with this flower, and speaks of The nightingale's harmonious woe, Their sleepy heads, and languish in the breeze. The cowslip has ever been a great favourite with the poets. Milton, in his song on May morning, writes Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Hail, bounteous May! The flowers which have been mentioned are all of them favourites, and especially so with children, most probably from the fact that they are so universally distributed throughout our land. But there are many others which we welcome with delight. Of wild flowers, we have the wood-anemone in March; the bluebell, the oxlip, and the wild heart's-ease in April; in the 'merry month of May,' so profuse on every hand with its beauties, the whitethorn of the hedges is covered with one mass of star-like blossoms, like 'odorous snow,' while the gorse is then clothed in all the splendour of its golden bloom. In June, the flowers of spring begin to give way to summer blossoms. The wild-rose appears, climbing the fences, and starring them with its delicate flowers of different hues; the honeysuckle and the eglantine emit their fragrance; and in dells and glades, on banks and hedge-sides, the stately foxglove rears its pyramid of bells. In July, climbing plants, as the clematis, the wild hop, and the white convolvulus, cover the hedges; the scarlet poppy-unwelcome sight to the farmer-glows like a coal of fire amidst the corn; the harebell, with its slender stem, is found on every bank; while on the moors and downs the blossoms of the wild thyme shed their perfume around. In August, the flowers, though still abundant, become less numerous; September sees many of them to their graves; and at last The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere; Heap'd in the hollows of the grove the wither'd leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust and to the rabbits' tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung and stood, In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, they perish'd long ago, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men; And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen. And now when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home,When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,— The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. PART V. MAN'S life has often been compared to that of a flower in its bud, blossoming, and decline; and when dead, |