divided in his allegiance to the sapphire queen, for in a different poem he speaks of But, Mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine. True love in this differs from gold and clay, It is an interesting fact that the poets are least felicitous in dealing with flowers when they deal with them expressly. It may be that the sense of having to extract an edifying moral makes them stiff and artificial. It is probably the same difference as that which exists between the ceremonious presentation of an address to some great personage and the loving prattle of a child to its mother. What a gulf there is between "There is a flower, the lesser celandine," and the few lines beginning, "I know a bank whereon the wild-thyme blows." If we had entered this wood earlier in the Spring we should have had an equally glorious carpet spread out for our welcome, for we see the handsome green leaves of the Wood Anemone everywhere. In the moss we may meet the frail Oxalis Acetosella, or Wood Sorrel. It is held by some to be the original shamrock used by St. Patrick. They argue from the frequency of great forests in the Ireland of his time, and the conspicuous tripartite leaves of this common plant. Its corolla is bell-shaped, and pale-lilac in colour with dark veins. The segments of the leaf fold in upon one another at nightfall. A yellow variety is often found on rock gardens under its Latin name, oxalis. Before we leave the wood we must glance at the creepers, the velvet leaves and bugle-blooms divine" of the Honeysuckle or Woodbine; the winged leaves and potato-flowered blossoms of the Woody Nightshade, the streaked vases of the Convolvolus or Bindweed, and many others. We shall see, too, perhaps, whole openings in the trees near the edge of the forest purpled with the pretty lipped flowers of the Ground Ivy, a sight all the more pleasing if there happen to be some old tree-stumps for it to drape itself on. On the outskirts of the wood we may be fortunate to meet with the Common Broom, which we shall mistake for Furze if we do not go closer to examine it. The Furze, also, the most glorious and strikingly decorative of our plants, will not be far off. One might think, watching the sky yellowing in the west some Summer evening, that God had sent His angels down to stop the golden sluices of the sunset with Broom and Furze. The Furze and Broom have impressed the minds of many of the poets with their beauty. Keats speaks of "swelling downs where prickly furze buds lavish gold"; Wordsworth, of the delightful season when the broom, Full-flower'd, and visible on every steep, Our own Samuel Ferguson, in the beautiful lines on the River Liffey, in Mesgedra, describes the river's course : The heath, the fern, the honey-fragrant furze, Moira O'Neill, thinking of her northern glens, sings of the gold on the whin-bush; whin being another name for furze. Examine the flowers of these two plants and you will at once recognise their resemblance to the Common Pea, to whose family they belong. In some parts of Russia the Furze is grown as a hot-house plant. The Swedish botanist, Linnæus, one of the masters of the science, fell on his knees to thank God for so much glory, when he saw it for the first time in these countries. Returning from the wood by this cart-track, there may be near, if we are fortunate, a remarkable flower which we can name straight away for ourselves without fear of erring. It is the Bee orchis. One would scarcely believe how like a bee it is. Its relation is the Fly orchis, which cannot be mistaken either. But undoubtedly the most extraordinary of our common flowers is the Cuckoo-pint, or Arum maculatum, known also as Lords-and-ladies. Its green leaves are like those of the tall Arum lilies so well used in decorative schemes. But the flower has no ordinary corolla or sepals. When it is not yet ripe it is wrapped up in a green sheath, which well repays the opening. It should be opened carefully lest the flower be broken inside. When the sheath is gone we have left a whitish (or purple if ripe), Indian club like arrangement, with a ring of white haired glands round its handle, set upon a reddish brown ring of anthers, which in turn surmounts a short column composed of seed-vessels, with their pistils, the whole, if fully grown, being some inches in length. At present the surprise of opening the sheath is obviated to some extent by Nature, but as only the purple club protrudes from the sheath, even when the plant is mature, it should be pulled and examined. It is one of the fly-trap plants. In Autumn the hedge banks will be gay with its scarlet berries. And, now, if we are not too tired, or too overladen with specimens, or if the Summer light has not already failed, we may wind up our excursion by gathering casually, at some little distance from one another, five or six Buttercups, taking care to secure some of the root-leaves of each. We shall probably have gathered two or three distinct species. One is certain to have the sepals (see note written in morning if the memory fails for "sepal "), turned back on the stem, and the flowerstalk channelled. This is Ranunculus bulbosus, or Bulbous Buttercup. Its root is a bulb. Another will have a smooth flower-stem and sepals unturned, and hairy leaves-R. acris, or Meadow Crowfoot. There may be one or two other species, and the examination will have given one a useful start in the classification of plants. And though our ramble is at last ended we feel sorry to go indoors for the evening, so many beautiful flowers have we passed over that seem to be calling out to us, against our undeserved neglect, from hedges, banks, and fields. RICH. F. Wassman. IN MEMORY'S LIGHT ROUNDELET. In memory's light The long, long past seems glinting gold; Its squalid pools blush crimsoned bright, Gold glow its cruel crags and cold In memory's light! JOHN J. HAYDEN. THE BROOCH OF LINDISFARNE By JESSIE A. GAUGHAN Author of "The Plucking of the Lily" CHAPTER XII A BETROTHAL THE stranger's hair and beard were fair, inclined to brown ; a dainty ruffle edged the neck of his pearl grey satin doublet, which was slashed with blue. Round his waist, a jewelled belt supported a slender sword. Jewelled buckles glittered in his satin shoes. So much Grace MacDonald perceived while she thanked him for the recovery of her ornament. It was with almost a child's abandon that she spoke, so glad was she to receive it back; but Coll, looking on angrily, mentally called her a coquette. "Madame, you overwhelm me;" the stranger's voice was smooth and pleasant to the ear. "That I was fortunate enough to find your property, and to restore it to its rightful owner, is in itself sufficient reward; but, to be thanked so sweetly by lips so lovely is far beyond my deserts." "In good sooth you are right in that!" Coll growled beneath his breath, and glanced at the gallant, hostility in his eye. The stranger pointed to the brooch. "An eagle's head," said he," might form a badge for any Highland clan, but the Latin words upon that ornament seem like an English motto. Think you, is that so?" Grace looked down at the golden letters, her forehead puckered in an effort to catch and pin down an elusive memory that flitted before her mind. "I know not to what family the words pertain," she said absently. Coll MacDonald took the brooch from Grace and read the motto. He thought that this stranger of the courtly voice and winning manner was regarding his cousin with more interest than the occasion demanded. He was English by his speech, and Coll felt a strong dislike for him. "A poor watchword this for any Highland clan," said he contemptuously. "Ours is in our native Gaelic: 'Dh' aindeòin co theireadh e!' and that in Scottish is 'Gainsay who dare!'" and he favoured the Englishman with a look that was almost a challenge, but the stranger appeared to take no notice. "A right good motto that for love or war!" he exclaimed, and Coll thought he detected a sneer. "But, sir," cried Grace, giving up the attempt to remember what evaded her, "how knew you the brooch was mine?" " Was it fancy on Coll's part, or did the finder of the ornament betray some confusion at the girl's very natural question ? Certainly he hesitated perceptibly before answering in the smooth, suave tones that MacDonald loathed as a reptile's touch, "Lady, when one gazes at a beauteous flower, does not the dewdrop on its petals come within one's range of vision? ” His admiring glance gave point to his words, and then he swung round sharply, as a laughing voice behind him cried : "Bravo! Bravo! By my soul! our Scottish lads will have trouble with you, my lord, if you reel off speeches like that in the ears of their ladies fair! What is this we hear of dewdrops?" the voice enquired. "You prick our curiosity. The beauteous flower we understand." King James, in high delight at the seeming success of his plan, had been going about among the company in the broadest good humour. Wherever he went, his jester followed him and laugh succeeded laugh. It happened that as His Majesty was passing near Grace MacDonald, he had heard the stranger's words. Grace had been presented to him earlier, and had been honoured by treading with him a measure. When the story of the loss of the brooch and its recovery was told him, he took the ornament from Coll and read aloud the motto, "Absit invidia." "" 'What! 'Absit invidia! " he cried, repeating the words in astonishment; then, glanced from the golden letters to the Englishman in the silence of surprise. The stranger hastened to fill in the gap. "Let there be no illwill," he translated. "Sire, might not this motto be your very own this night? King James recovered himself to say, "The motto of all Scotland, my lord." Then, bowing gallantly and doffing to Grace his bonnet, he begged leave to fasten in the jewel. Grace curtsied low, and as she rose the monarch whispered |