Agnes Maclellan Daulton
It was a lovely day in May, and the Dandelion family that lived near the big gate were lifting their pretty golden heads to greet the sun. Here and there a grandfather or grandmother Dandelion stood crowned with silver, and, let us whisper it softly, one or two were quite bald, for a playful little breeze had sent their hair a-sailing, and he chuckled at his joke, the naughty breeze.
Now one grandmother stood upon a little knoll, and so was much taller than the rest. Indeed, she was the chief grandmother of the family, and much respected for her wisdom. And she was very handsome and stately, holding her graceful silver head high above the others.
“A story, a story,” coaxed her grandchildren, turning their eager faces toward her. Some of them were tiny buds, but they all begged for a story.
“No, children, no,” she replied, in a sweet, grandmotherly tone. “Really, my dears, you have had far more stories than are good for you, and I must not let you grow up uneducated. I think we will have a short lesson in family history.”
The little Dandelions sighed.
“Now,” she went on, “how many of you know why we are called Dandelions?”
And—will you believe it?—not one stupid little Dandelion could answer!
“That is just what I expected,” said grandmother, sternly, eyeing them over her glasses. “My, my! this is very sad!”