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Years passed, and the boys were men. Ernest sat writing in a small chamber, that looked toward the setting sun. His little child had hung a prismatic chandelier-drop on the window, and he wrote amid the rainbows that it cast over his paper. In a simple vase on his desk stood a stalk of blossoms from the brilliant wild flower, called the Cardinal. Unseen by him, the fairy Touchu circled round his head and waved her Lily-stamen, from which the fine gold-coloured dust fell on his hair in a fragrant shower. In the greensward below, two beautiful yellow birds sat among the catnip-blossoms, picking the seed, while they rocked gracefully on the wind-stirred plant. Ernest smiled as he said to himself, “Gone are the dandelion blossoms, which strewed my grass-carpet with golden stars; and now come these winged flowers to refresh the eye. When they are gone to warmer climes, then will the yellow butterflies come in pairs; and when even they are gone, here in my oboë sleep the soft yellow tones, ever ready to wake and cheer me with their child-like gladness.”
He took up the instrument as he spoke, and played a slight flourish. A little bird that nestled among the leaves of a cherry tree near by, caught the tones of the oboë and mocked it with a joyous trill, a little sunny shower of sound. Then sprang the poet to his feet, and his countenance lighted up like a transfigured one. But a slight cloud soon floated over that radiant expression. “Ah, if thou only wert not afraid of me!” he said. “If thou wouldst come, dear little warbler, and perch on my oboë, and sing a duet with me, how happy I should be! Why are man and nature thus sundered?”
Another little bird in the Althea bush, answered him in low sweet notes, ending ever with the plaintive cadence of the minor-third. The deep, tender eyes of the child-man filled with tears. “We are not sundered,” thought he. “Surely my heart is in harmony with Nature; for she responds to my inmost thought, as one instrument vibrates the tones of another to which it is perfectly attuned. Blessed, blessed is nature in her soothing power.” As he spoke, Touchu came floating on a zephyr, and poured over him the fragrance of mignonette she had gathered from the garden below.
* * * * *
At the same hour, Alfred walked in his conservatory among groves of fragrant Geraniums and richly-flowering Cactuses. He smoked a cigar, and glanced listlessly from his embroidered slippers to the marble pavement without taking notice of the costly flowers. The gardener, who was watering a group of Japonicas, remarked, “This is a fine specimen that has opened to-day. Will you have the goodness to look at it, sir?” He paused in his walk a moment, and looked at a pure white blossom, with the faintest roseate blush in the centre. “It ought to be handsome,” said he. “The price was high enough. But after all the money I have expended, horticulturists declare that Mr. Duncan’s Japonicas excel mine. It’s provoking to be outdone.” The old gnome stood behind one of the plants, and shrugged his shoulders and grinned. Without perceiving his presence, Alfred muttered to himself, “Utouch promised my flowers should be unequalled in rarity and beauty.”
“That was last year,” croaked a small voice, which he at once recognized.
“Last year!” retorted Alfred, mocking his tone. “Am I then to be always toiling after what I never keep? That’s precious comfort, you provoking imp!”
A retreating laugh was heard under the pavement, as the rich man threw his cigar away, exclaiming impatiently, “The devil take the Japonicas! what do I care? they’re not worth fretting about.”
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