As he said “hair,” Lillie Bell rose, and in ready imitation of the renowned Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm tragically intoned:
“Robaire! Robaire!
Let down your hair!”
The girls burst into peals of laughter, for even in the sleepy town of Westport every one had seen the beloved Rebecca, and keenly appreciated Lillie’s timely pose.
“But this slim bit of a girl,” smiled the doctor, “didn’t let down her yellow tresses, they just flew with the wind, until Shawondassee—this is an Indian legend—the South Wind saw her. Instead of seeking this witching maiden, whom he admired so deeply, he was lulled to sleep by the fragrance of the summer flowers and forgot all about her. The next day he again spied his yellow charmer away off among the grasses of the meadows, but after lazily wishing she would come to him he snoozed off again. To his horror, the next day he found that the maiden’s tresses were gone, and that in her place stood an old woman who looked as if Jack Frost had sprinkled her with his silver dust.
“‘Ah,’ sighed Shawondassee, ‘my brother the North Wind has done this wrong.’ So he hurriedly arose and blew his horn loud and fierce to the whitened figure standing so forlornly out in the fields. But alas, as his soft breezes whistled gently about the old woman, her snow-white hair fell to the ground, and then she, too, soon disappeared, leaving nothing but a few upright stems and a bunch of withered leaves. She was the dandelion, whose petals turn to fluffy hair when touched by the North Wind. This yellow maiden is said to be a symbol of the sun, and has been named Dandelion because it is claimed that its petals resemble a lion’s tooth.”
The common little field flower seemed to have gained in interest after the legend, and was examined with greater curiosity, while the Scribe hurriedly wrote the legend on a stray page of her copy-pad to feature it in the “Pioneer.”
Lillie Bell, who had gathered a number of wild forget-me-nots, told a pathetic German legend about that sweetheart flower, while Helen explained that the marigold, instead of being such a common plant, was in reality the bride of the sun. It was once a maiden named Caltha, who, in reward for her faithfulness to the sun, was finally lost in his golden rays, and on the spot where she used to stand and gaze at her fiery lover the marigold grew.
Nathalie, who had been deeply interested in the legends, experienced somewhat of a shock when Mrs. Morrow suddenly said, “Now, Nathalie, are we not to hear a flower legend, or some kind of a story from you?”
“Oh, I am a poor hand at story-telling,” the girl speedily answered.
“Hear! hear! this is treason!” called Helen loudly, “for a Pioneer who has won fame as a Story Lady!”