But the other plants were silent and dejected; all but the Amaranth,
who knew herself gifted with immortality, and the Box, who was very
stoical. But another trial awaited the poor Poppy.
The Nightshade had hardly ceased speaking, when soft, gentle human
voices were heard in the garden, and a child of three summers, with
rosy cheeks, deep blue eyes, and flowing, golden hair, came bounding
down the gravelled walks, followed by a fair lady. The child had
come to bid good morning to her flowers and birds, and as she
carolled to the latter, and paused now and then to inhale the breath
of some fragrant blossom, and examine the elegant form and rich and
varied tints of another, the little songsters sang more loudly and
cheerily; and the flowers, it seemed, became more sweet and
beautiful.
The Poppy, who was as ignorant as was any one else how she had found
her way into the garden, now began to reason with herself.
"Some one must have planted me here," she said; "and though I am not
as sweet as that proud Carnation, nor so elegant as that dignified
Dahlia, I may have as much right to remain here as they!" and she
raised her head erect, and spread out her broad, scarlet petals,
with their deep, ragged fringe, hoping to attract the notice of the
little girl.
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