I remember my birthland well. Our old home in Hartwell, where Louise and I were born, was surrounded by a wide, rolling lawn, filled with blooming flowers from the time of the first peep of the early March crocus to the stately bloom and decay of the autumn flowers. Here, too, near her window grew a straight, tall maple tree, whose branches stretched far and wide and even touched her window.
I liked this tree because it gave us a pleasant shade when the sun’s rays were inclined to be too warm and made us droop and feel so languid and so tired. Delicate, dainty things, as Louise and I, must not have too much sunshine, else we droop and die.
One day I asked Louise if this tree was old. I knew it was by the many deep furrows in its bark, but I loved the music of her voice so much that I often asked her useless questions that I might lift up my head and listen to its melody. Louise then told me its age and much else that I had never heard. She said that with each returning springtime this tree sent up the life-giving sap from its roots, which ran swiftly through the trunk to the branches. Soon on these branches little red buds appeared, then a bloom and finally leaves, and wonderful little wing-like looking keys which held the seeds of the maple tree.
These were strange, wonderful things for me to hear, but I knew them to be true, because Louise told them to me. No one ever doubted Louise, for all her life long she had worshiped at the altar of truth, and, because of her truthfulness, her beauty and her goodness, all things loved her.
Besides giving us moisture and shade, the south wind told me that this same fine old tree held in its forks a home for some little friends of Louise. When the March winds left us and the skies became clear and blue and warm, her friends the robins would return to their old home as they had done for many seasons past, and there under her kindly, watchful care would raise their brood of young.
One day I saw her—I was always watching her—drop a bit of cotton and several strings down from her window. The cotton fell near my bed. I wondered and wondered why she had done this thing. A long time afterward I was told that it was for the use of Mother Robin in making her nest. Father Robin thanked my dear Louise for her thoughtfulness by singing for her his most beautiful notes at the dawn, the noon-time and the evening.
I lived in happiness in that quaint old town of Hartwell, caring naught for its bright skies, wide rolling plains, its peaceful waters, its fruits of tree and vine. I was young; I was happy; I lived near Louise; it was all that I desired.
I remember—but why should I tell you? I am only a little pansy, born, perhaps, for an hour or a day, to bloom and be gathered and die—so the south wind has told me. It must know. “God gave the flowers and birds and all things for man’s use and abuse,” so you say; but I had thought it different, for I lived in the sunshine of Louise’s love and tender care. One day—how well I remember it!—it was a day in sunny, coquettish April—when I heard voices approaching. Nearer and nearer they came, until I felt the presence of my dear Louise with her dark haired friend. I could not see them, for one of my sister pansies held her head so high and haughty that a little pansy such as I could not see or be seen.
This day Louise was more tender than usual. Alas! why is it ever true that dearest love is bought at the price of death and separation?
She bent down, half hesitatingly, and kissed me, touched my petals lovingly, and whispered so gently—only I could hear: “My beauty, my golden-hearted pansy, shall I—must I—give you to my friend?”