Pussy Willow. [In basket.] Dear me! What does this mean? Why, Violet, you’ve got some dirt in my eye and on my nice new fur.
Fern. [In basket.] It Serves you right for being so proud. You think yourself better and prettier than others. Something always happens to any one who does that.
Pussy Willow. I wasn’t speaking to you.
Violet. Oh, please don’t quarrel. I am sure I am sorry if I have hurt any one. It was not my fault. I didn’t want to come here a bit. How I wish I could get out.
Fern. Humph! Little good it will do to get out. I think these are the very people that Mr. Oak Tree was telling me about. They come every year looking for ferns and flowers. He says some of my ancestors for many generations have gone the same way. They always choose the finest, at any rate.
[At Home.]
First Child. Oh, Mary, I found the sweetest little violet for you—a white one. I dug it up with all its roots, so it will not wither.
Mary. How lovely! You are very kind to bring me such beautiful flowers.
Second Child. It’s the first one that came up.