“Nine years and six months,” said Ben. At that stage of his life he could not bear to cut off a single day.
“And I’m eight,” said Sally. “I’m nearly as old as brother, I come within three inches of being as tall as Ben.”
“I’ll help you pull weeds,” said the lad. “I can cut them with my jackknife.”
“It will do no good if you leave the roots,” said Gill. “These daisies are wonderful to spread,—one root will have sixty or seventy stalks, and the stalks branch out on all sides, and bear any quantity of seed.”
“They’re lovely,” said Sally, “it seems a pity to destroy them.”
Every little child loves the fine “ox-eye.”
It stands up amid the green, so attractive and beautiful, with the pretty yellow center, and the delicate white petals.
The children wade in the meadow grass, and fill their little hands with daisies, and feel very rich as they run home with them to mother.
“I do not see why they are called ‘ox-eyes,’” said Ben.
“Nor I,” said Gill. “People take strange fancies sometimes. There’s a small cloud that is seen at the cape of Good Hope, once in a while before a dreadful storm. They call that an ‘ox-eye.’ They say it is of that form and size, when it first appears, though it soon grows and overspreads the whole heavens. These flowers do look something like, with the great round pupil, come to think of it.”