'I am here, love,' she faintly murmured.
Then with all the old love-light beaming from her soft, gentle eyes, she turned to gaze at her poor desolate mate, who was rending the air with his piteous cries, then closed them for ever, with a look of perfect peace, murmuring softly,—
'Dearest, forget me not.'
And the rippling stream bore her gently away echoing with a plaintive wail her dying words:
'Dearest, forget me not.'
The poor widowed bird caught the flowers as they were floating away on the breast of his lost love, and carried them to his now desolate home; but one little blossom, in tender pity for sweet Jenny Wren, detached itself from the others to linger still with the poor dead bird; and when the stream had carefully borne its precious burden to a shady nook, where she could rest, for ever freed from sorrow and pain, the flower was carried with her, and, taking root above the spot where she lay buried, put forth its blue blossoms in loving remembrance of that fond, faithful heart.
And thus it is how we became dwellers close to tranquil streams, and why our name is still 'forget-me-not.'
