GULDSTAD.
No, Iceland moss, dry gathered,—far the best
Cure for young ladies with a wounded breast.
A GENTLEMAN.
No, the wild chestnut tree,—high repute
For household fuel, but with a bitter fruit.
SVANHILD.
No, a camellia; at our balls, 'tis said,
The chief adornment of a lady's head.
MRS. STRAWMAN.
No, it is like a flower, O such a bright one;—
Stay now—a blue one, no, it was a white one—
What is it's name—? Dear me—the one I met—;
Well it is singular how I forget!
STIVER.
None of these flower similitudes will run.
The flowerpot is a likelier candidate.
There's only room in it, at once, for one;
But by progressive stages it holds eight.
STRAWMAN [with his little girls round him].
No, love's a pear tree; in the spring like snow
With myriad blossoms, which in summer grow
To pearlets; in the parent's sap each shares;—
And with God's help they'll all alike prove pears.
FALK.
So many heads, so many sentences!
No, you all grope and blunder off the line.
Each simile's at fault; I'll tell you mine;—
You're free to turn and wrest it as you please.
[Rises as if to make a speech.
In the remotest east there grows a plant;(4)
And the sun's cousin's garden is its haunt—
THE LADIES.
Ah, it's the tea-plant!
FALK.
Yes.
MRS. STRAWMAN.
His voice is so
Like Strawman's when he—