This all happened very, very long ago, in the time so far away that even the oldest grandmother cannot remember the Holy Night when Hilda gave precious gifts to the miners; but the story has come down from the fathers and the fathers’ fathers, and that is why, even to this day, the mountain folk of Bohemia still deck their Christmas trees with silvered cones.
THE FORGET-ME-NOT
Adapted from Version by Hoffman von Fallersleben
(Thuringian Folk Tale—Helpful in Nature Study)
In the beginning of things, when God the Father created every beast of the forest and every bird and tree and blossom, he gave each one a name, and the snowdrop, the lily, the pansy, the violet, and all the other flower sisterhood rejoiced and were glad, for each thought its own name the loveliest in the world. Everywhere in field and woodland there was happiness, and the blossoms lifted their faces toward heaven in gratitude, thanking the Gracious Giver.
But suddenly there was a sound of weeping. Somewhere in the meadow a flower had raised its voice in sorrow, and all the other flowers looked to see. At first they could not tell whence the sound came, then they beheld a tiny blossom, with petals the color of heaven and a heart the color of gold. It was sobbing bitterly, and the lily, looking down in pity, asked, “Why weepest thou?”
“Alas,” came the reply, “I have forgotten my name.” Then—wonderful sound—the primrose and the violet and the pansy heard the voice of God the Father, for although the blossom was very tiny and half hidden by the grasses of the field, He heard and saw and knew.
“Forgotten your name?” He spake in tones that were sweet and tender. “Then shalt thou be called ‘Forget-me-not,’ for that thou canst always remember.”
“Forget-me-not,” repeated the gorgeous rose and the modest violet, and the tiny one smiled through its tears and said, “Forget-me-not.”