“May I tell you what they are like to me?”
“Certainly.”
“They are like lightning on a still night, without rain, without thunder. The heavens are open and there is light--that is all. Is there more in that book?”
“A great deal,” answered the young man; and, pointing to the celandines in Kate’s bosom, said, “The poet has something to say about these flowers.”
“What, buttercups?”
“They are not buttercups. Take them out from where they are pinned. I will teach you a lesson--how to distinguish sorts.”
As the girl removed the bunch and placed it on the table, he said, “Do you see the petals? The golden leaves of the flower are called petals. They are pointed. Now, remember, a buttercup has rounded petals.”
“You are right, and they come out later. They are more like little drunkards.”
“Drunkards? What do you mean?”
“The large golden cups that grow by the water’s edge--these we call drunkards, but they drink only water.”