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.
