Voice of Flowers/The Willow, Poppy, and Violet
THE WILLOW, POPPY, AND VIOLET.
A child held in his hand a slight, leafless bough. It was like a supple, green wand. But it had been newly cut from the parent stock, and life still stirred in its little heart.
He sought out a sheltered spot, and planted it in the moist earth. Often did he visit it, and when the rains of summer were witheld, he watered it at the cool sunset.
The sap, which is the blood of plants, began to flow freely through its tender vessels. A tiny root, like a thread, crept downwards, and around the head was a bursting forth of faint green leaves.
Seasons passed over it, and it became a tree. Its slender branches drooped downward to the earth. The cheering sun smiled upon them—the happy birds sang to them—but they drooped still.
"Tree, why art thou always so sad and drooping? Am not I kind unto thee?" But it answered not—only as it grew on it drooped lower and lower, for it was a weeping willow.
The boy cast seed into the soft garden mould. When the time of flowers came, a strong, budding stalk stood there, with coarse, serrated leaves. Soon a full red poppy came forth, glorying in its gaudy dress. At its feet grew a purple violet, which no hand had planted or cherished.
It lived lovingly with the mosses, and with the frail flowers of the grass, not counting itself more excellent than they.
"Large poppy, why dost thou spread out thy scarlet robe so widely, and drink up all the sunbeams from my lowly violet?"
But the flaunting flower replied not to him who planted it. It even seemed to open its rich silk mantle still more broadly, as though it would have stifled its humble neighbors. Yet nothing hindered the fragrance of the meek violet.
The little child was troubled, and at the hour of sleep he spake to his mother of the tree that continually wept, and of the plant that overshadowed its neighbor. So she took him on her knee, and spake so tenderly in his ear, that he remembered her words when he became a man.
"There are some, who, like the willow, are weepers all their lives long, though they dwell in pleasant places, and the fair skies shine upon them in love. And there are others, who, like the poppy that thou reprovedst, are proud at heart, and despise the humble, whom God regardeth."
"Be thou not like them, my gentle child; but keep ever in thy breast the sweet spirit of the lowly violet, that thou mayest come at last to that blessed place, which pride cannot enter, and where the sound of weeping is unknown."