The bird is sing a song of them life.
Darlings of the forest!
Blossoming alone,
When Earth's grief is sorest
For her jewels gone–
Ere the last snowdrift melts, your tender buds have blown.
Tinged with colour faintly,
Like the morning sky,
Or, more pale and saintly,
Wrapped in leaves ye lie–
Even as children sleep in faith's simplicity.
There the wild wood-robin
Hymns your solitude;
And the rain comes sobbing
Through the budding wood,
While the low south wind sighs, but dare not be more rude.
Were your pure lips fashioned
Out of air and dew–
Starlight unimpassioned,
Dawn's most tender hue,
And scented by the woods that gathered sweets for you?
Fairest and most lonely,
From the world apart;
Made for beauty only,
Veiled from Nature's heart
With such unconscious grace as makes the dream of Art!
Were not mortal sorrow
An immortal shade,
Then would I to-morrow
Such a flower be made,
And live in the dear woods where my lost childhood played.–Rose Terry
Now she peeped into the library, rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed, laughing. Jack was still with the Indians.
"Jackie, dear, there are some friends of yours waiting in the parlour," said Phyllis.
"They're late," said Jack, throwing his book down.
"Just in season," said Phyllis with a faint giggle.
In a moment, Jack came back. He was half-frowning, half-laughing.
"You fooled me that time, little sister," he said. "There is no one waiting for me!"
"Oh, yes, big brother, there is a whole family in there. They are just in season. Come, I will introduce you, since you seem to have forgotten."
Phyllis led Jack into the parlour. Still he saw no one. She led him up to little side table. On it stood a vase and in it stood–
"Jack-in-the-pulpit, let me introduce Jack-my-big-brother," and then Phyllis fell into a big chair and laughed.
"Phyllis," began Jack, crossly, for now he remembered that he had left the Indian story unfinished.
"Jack-in-the-pulpit is talking to you," said Phyllis, holding up a finger warningly. "You are very rude. I'm sure you did not bow to his wife."
"How do you know which is Jack and which is Mrs. Jack?" he asked.
Phyllis opened her eyes wide.
"I'm s'prised," she said, solemnly. "I see I shall have to tell you all about your name-sakes.
"Do you see how staunchly Jack stands in his pulpit? Nowadays our pulpits are not covered over, but they used to be in olden times. In England to this day you may find these roofed pulpits."
"There are some in the old Colonial churches of New England even now," said Jack.
"Do see how gracefully this little fellow's pulpit-leaf arches!" said Phyllis. "It is light green with veins of dark green. Jack is particular, and always preaches from a green pulpit."
"But here is a pulpit stained with purple," said Jack.
"Oh, that is Mrs. Jack-in-the-pulpit. That is the purple hood which she wears to church when her husband preaches."
"Well," said Jack, "her bonnet looks exactly like the pulpit."
"Except the colour," explained Phyllis.
Jack stood a moment examining the quaint green flowers.
"I know another name for him," he said. "These plants are called 'memory-roots' by some."
"Why?" Phyllis questioned.
"That's just what I asked Will the other day, and he said if I would bite into the root of the plant I'd find out."
"And you found out?"
"I did!" answered Jack, with a wry face. "My tongue was almost blistered. It is sore yet. I know now why it is called 'memory-root.'
"Will told me afterward that the Indians boiled these roots for food. He said he tried it himself once when he was camping and playing Indian. The acid seems quite gone after cooking, and they are rather tasteless and good for nothing. Please, little sister, may I go back to my story now?"
"You may," said Phyllis, laughing, "if you think the sermon is over!"
"I came near not understanding the sermon," said Jack. "Do you know what he said to me?"
"Yes," said Phyllis, "I hope I shall always listen as you did, Jackie."
I wonder if you know what the children meant by the lesson that those little green flowers taught Jack.
