Are all ‘Wo-he-lo!’ singing.”
“All Wo-he-lo singing! Wo-he-lo for aye!” With the soft cheer on her lips, the arm of the blue-eyed girl stole round her “play-marrow,” Una, heart of her heart, chum of chums—play-marrow was Andrew’s word for that girlish affection which, begun in youth, is a star that never sets until the Camp Fire trail is done. “You’re not down-hearted: No-o!” she insisted, catching the lingering little cloud on the “eye-sweet” face. “You can’t be—honey. Look at the wild flowers.”
“Ha:
“Vervain and dill,
Hindereth witches of their will!”
laughed Una, beguiled by the bait immediately, as she stooped to pick a purplish blue spike of the wayside vervain—cousin to the garden verbena—to which a bee had clung, asleep.
“In one way she’ll be more at home in the wilderness than any of us—being near kin to the wild flowers,” smiled the Guardian, following, with her eyes on the tenderfoot among her Group—its exotic—Una—as the latter darted off after boneset and yellow sow thistle now.
“See the sow thistle is one of the flowers that close, go to sleep at night—and open in the morning, quite early,” laughed its captor, holding it up; “so I’ve admitted it to my flower clock—garden flower clock; bindweed, chickweed and pimpernel are some of the others—pimpernel, lazy little weather prophet!”
“No eye can see, no tongue can tell,
The virtues of the pimpernel,”