From garden flowers, and blossoms wild.”
Not far from the borders of a dark wood, was a bright and cheerful-looking garden. Flowers were there, of every hue and form, growing and rejoicing beneath the beams of the summer’s sun.
“Ah, how happy we are!” said the marigold to the larkspur.
“Here we bloom and soar upward almost to the very sun,” said a family of sun-flowers.
“Yes, and climb as high as the sky,” cried a convolvolus and jasmine, who had wound themselves round a tall princess-feather.
“How brilliant and stately we are,” said the proud dahlia. “We are admired far more than those pale flowers that grow in yonder wood.”
“I pity the poor faded things,” whispered a bright coreopsis.
“I look down upon them,” said a fierce tiger-lily.
“The sun loves the garden flowers best,” said a pansy of great beauty, to some sweet mignionette; “let us be glad that our home is in this bright place.”
“I will ring a peal for very happiness,” replied a gay Canterbury bell; “for how could we exist in the gloom of that forest?”