"You had better gather up your sweet leaves, and put on your cap again," said the London Pride. "I see a golden-winged butterfly in Calla's cup; your spicy breath will soon bring him here to drink of your nectar!"
The most of the flowers laughed, but the Carnation still called out—"How came she here?"
The Amaranth, however, who never slept a wink through the whole night, would not answer the question, though the flowers were certain that she could, were she so inclined.
"I do not see how you who are in her immediate neighbourhood, can breathe!" said the Syringa, who was farthest removed from the poor Poppy.
"I do feel as if I should faint!" said the Verbena.
"And I feel a cold chill creeping over me!" said the Ice Plant.
"That is not strange!" remarked the Nightshade, who had sprung up in the shadow of the hedge, "she carries with her, everywhere she goes, the atmosphere of the place whence she comes. Do you know where that is?"
Some of the flowers shuddered, but the Nightshade went on:—
"The Poppy is indigenous now only on the verdureless banks of the Styx. When Proserpine, who was gathering flowers, was carried away to the dark Avernus, all the other blossoms which she had woven in her garland withered and died, but the Poppy; and that the goddess planted in the land of darkness and gloom, and called it the flower of Death. She flourishes there in great luxuriance; Nox and Somnus make her bed their couch. The aching head, which is bound with a garland of her blossoms, ceases to throb; the agonized soul which drinks in her deep breath, wakes no more to sorrow. Death follows wherever she comes!"
"We will not talk of such gloomy things!" said the Coreopsis, with difficulty preserving her cheerfulness.