The flowers nodded, as if they understood what she said.
"What pretty colors! I never half noticed them before," went on Laura, "and wouldn't that blue one make a lovely dress?"
Just then wee Donald, fresh from his nap, came toddling out through the open door, and stretched his little fat hands to the glories. "Baby wants a trumpet," he cried.
Laura laughed aloud as she said: "Why, they do look like trumpets, and like parasols, too;" and she gathered a handful of the blossoms and sprinkled the porch with their brightness. "Let's play with them, baby; see if we can make some dolls;" and Laura stood a glory on the step, and into the tiny hole stuck the yellow center of a daisy, whose petals she had pulled out. On this center she marked eyes, nose, and mouth; and when a small glory was added for a bonnet, what a pretty flower doll she had, with a pink skirt, green waist, and white bonnet! Then a whole family of glories were made, and Laura gave them each a parasol to carry.
Baby used his glories for tents, and they had a good time playing, and Laura wished she had noticed the glories more before.
By and by, when the day was over, and Laura sat again in the hammock, watching the sleeping glories, she said: "I wonder if the glories could have been talking this morning; "and one little sleepy bud looked as if it could tell if it chose. But Mamma put her arm about the little girl and said, "I think it was a dream, dear. But if the flowers could speak I think they would tell my darling that by using her eyes more, she will find out how much there is that is beautiful, and God made them all for us to enjoy, because he loves us. Every flower that blooms its sweetest, and every child who tries to be good, is a precious part of our Heavenly Father's glories."
A Fall Song
Golden and red trees
Nod to the soft breeze,
As it whispers, "Winter is near;"
And the brown nuts fall
At the wind's loud call,
For this is the Fall of the year.
Good-by, sweet flowers!
Through bright Summer hours
You have filled our hearts with cheer
We shall miss you so,
And yet you must go,
For this is the Fall of the year.
Now the days grow cold,
As the year grows old,
And the meadows are brown and sere;
Brave robin redbreast
Has gone from his nest,
For this is the Fall of the year.
I do softly pray
At the close of day,
That the little children, so dear,
May as purely grow
As the fleecy snow
That follows the Fall of the year.