wildeherb.com

Welcome back to Flower Poetry Fridays with Mrs. Sigourney. Each Friday a new poem will be posted from her The Voice Of Flowers.

THE EARLY FROST.

MY flowers,—my few and precious flowers,
     what evil hath been here ?
Came the fierce Frost-King forth last night, so
     secret and severe?
I saw you last with diamond dew fresh on
     each beauteous head,
And little deem’d to find ye thus, all desolate
     and dead.

White Poppy, tall and full of pride, whose pe-
     tals’ feathery grace
With fully rounded orb has decked my simple
     parlor vase ;
Thy oozing buds disclose the gum, that swells
     Hygeia’s store,
But the sleep of death is on thee now, thy
     magic spell is o’er.

Alas, my brave Crysanthemum, how crisp thou
     art, and sere ;
Thou wert, perchance, too lightly prized, when
     gaudier friends were near ;
Yet, like a hero didst thou rise, to meet the
     spoiler’s dart,
And battle, till the pure life-blood ran curdling
     round thy heart.

My poor Sweet-Pea, my constant friend,
     whene’er I sought in vain
To twine a full bouquet for one who pressed
     the couch of pain ;
Or when my garden sometimes failed my man-
     tel-piece to dress,
Thou always gav’st a hoarded gem, to help me
     in distress.

But thou, dear lonely Pansy, thus smiling in
     my path,
I marvel much how thou hast scap’d the ty-
     rant’s deadly wrath ;
Didst thou hide beneath thy neighbor’s robe,
     so flaunting and so fine,
To bid one sad good-morning more, and press
     thy lips to mine ?

Good bye, my pretty flowering Bean, that with
     a right good will,
O’er casement, arch and trellis went climbing,
     climbing still,
Till the stern destroyer marked thee, and in
     his bitter ire,
Quenched out thy many scarlet spikes that
     glowed like living fire.

Pale, pale Snowberry, all is gone ; I would it
     were not so,
Methinks the Woodbine near thee hath felt a
     lighter woe ;
Lean, lean upon her sheltering arm, thy latest
     pang to take,
And yield to autumn’s stormy will, till happi-
     er seasons wake.

Coarse Marigold, in days of yore, I scorned thy
     tawny face,
But since my plants are frail and few, I’ve
     gave thee welcome place,
And thou, tall London-pride ! my son from
     weeds preserved thy stem,
And, for his sake, I sigh to see thy fallen dia-
     adem.

I have no costly Dahlias, nor greenhouse flow-
     ers to weep,
But I passed the rich man’s garden, and the
     mourning there was deep,
For the crownless queens, all drooping, hung
     amid the wasted sod,
Like Boadicea, bent with shame, beneath the
     Roman rod.

‘Tis hard to say farewell, my plants, ’tis hard
     to say farewell ;
The florist might despise ye, yet your worth I
     cannot tell ;
For at rising sun, or even-tide, in sorrow or in
     glee,
Your fragrant lips have ever op’d, to speak
     good words to me.

Most dear ye were to him who died, when
     summer round ye play’d,
That good old man, who looked with love on
     all that God had made ;
Who, when his first familiar friends sank
     down in dreamless rest,
Took nature’s green and living things more
     closely to his breast.

My blessed sire, we bore his chair at early
     summer morn,
That he might sit among your bowers and see
     your blossoms born ;
While meek and placid smiles around his rev-
     erend features played,
The language of that better land, where ye no
     more shall fade.

Shall I see you, once again, sweet flowers,
     when Spring returneth fair,
To strew her breathing incense upon the
     balmy air?
Will you lift to me your infant heads? For
     me with fragrance swell?
Alas ! why should I ask you thus, what is not
     yours to tell.

I know, full well, before your buds shall hail
     the vernal sky,
That many a younger, brighter brow, beneath
     the clods must lie ;
And if my pillow should be there, still come
     in beauty free,
And show my little ones the love that you have
     borne to me.

Yea, come in all your glorious pomp, ambas-
     sadors, to show
The truth of those eternal words that on God’s
     pages glow,
The bursting of the icy tomb, the rising of the
     just
In robes of beauty and of light, all stainless
     from the dust.

Mrs. Sigourney mourns her beautiful flowers after the Frost-King makes his appearance – love that name, by the way.

When that first hard frost comes the growing season is over for the year. Frost IS King.

She eulogizes her favorite posies that will no longer give smiles this season…the White Poppy, Crysanthemum, Sweet-Pea, flowering Bean, Snowberry.

The Pansy was the notable exception as it failed to be killed by the early frost. Isn’t it a curiosity as to how it survived? Indeed!

By the end of the poem she rejoices in knowing that younger flower buds to be are waiting for their time to burst out of the ground.

Even if Mrs. Sigourney herself was not alive to see the new flowers next Spring, she took comfort that the future generations of flowers would be there to show her children the love that these flowers — now bowing their heads from the early frost — gave to her.

Come back next Friday for the next installment in our series of flower poems from Mrs. Sigourney’s The Voice of Flowers, “The Stranger’s Flower”.

Welcome back to Flower Poetry Fridays with Mrs. Sigourney. Each Friday a new poem will be posted from her The Voice Of Flowers.

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 reprov-
edst, are proud at heart, and despise the hum-
ble, 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."

The lowly, meek violet with a sweet spirit is to be admired and imitated. What a lovely thing to teach a child.

Too bad that attitude won’t help you get ahead in this world, but perhaps it will in the Next.

Come back next Friday for the next installment in our series of flower poems from Mrs. Sigourney’s The Voice of Flowers, “The Early Frost”.

“Tall Yellow Mid-Summer Bloomer in the Yard”

A lawn weed that we like, called St. John’s Wort, is flowering like crazy in mid-July.

St. John’s Wort, Hypericum perforatum, is recognized by its clusters of yellow star-like flowers. The five-petaled flowers have a large number of stamens jutting up into the air which makes them look bristly.

Also, a close-up view of the leaves will show the small oil spots that make them seem holey, or perforated.

It’s one of those yard weeds that was left to grow as we like to mow around plants that seem interesting. It’s a great way to find out about native, and some not-so-native, plants in your area.

It’s also a way to keep the lawn looking weedy, but we don’t care about a non-sustainable manicured lawn. It would take too much time and money to keep it that way, if it’s even possible. The constant fight against weeds and grubs that would destroy the all-grass look and the spraying of any chemicals to maintain its fake look is just a ridiculous waste to keep up with the Jones.

I’m sure there are more of us out here who mow around weeds just to let them flower. 🙂

Sometimes you pay the price though, like the time I let Giant Ragweed grow next to the front door. Ignorance is bliss! At least I know how to recognize that sneeze-weed now!

Well, last year the St. John’s Wort that was mowed around flowered and must have re-seeded itself very well because it’s all over the backyard this summer.

It turned out nice to have a broad swath of tall, starry yellow flowers for a couple of weeks. Not sure how long each blossom is open but a cluster of flowers doesn’t blossom all at one time. Successive blooming flowers may extend how long the plant is in bloom.

According to USDA Plants Database at least 18 species of Hypericum spp. grow wild in Pennsylvania. Some introduced, some native, but all can be called St. John’s Wort.

The particular species photographed here is Common St. John’s Wort, Hypericum perforatum.

The plant gets about 2 feet tall when it blooms. A central main stem and several side branches give rise to small clusters of flowers at the ends of the branches.

Black dots marks the yellow flower petals as belonging to St. John’s Wort. The close-up photos show the black dots on flower buds, stems and leaves, too.

Wintergreen profusely flowered during the first week of July in Central Pennsylvania. An early to mid-Summer bloomer.

Each flowering plant has one to several white, globe-like flowers similar to blueberry blossoms, but not in clusters as with blueberry.

Flowers dangle singly by a red down-curved stem attached to the main stem. Looks like two or three in a loose cluster per plant.

Forest-dwelling perennial.

Evergreen, oval leaves are low to the ground in wintergreen or teaberry as it’s also known. The plant getting no more than a few inches tall.

Older leaves may have spots of maroon or turn almost completely red, and brilliantly so.

At the time these photos were taken 70 flowering plants were counted and several others were with dropped or unopened blossoms were noted in a 150 sq. ft. area.

This colony of wintergreen plants grows at the edge of the woods next to a driveway, but underneath oak trees.

Welcome back to Flower Poetry Fridays with Mrs. Sigourney. Each Friday a new poem will be posted from her The Voice Of Flowers.

BLOSSOMS FALLING FROM
THE FRUIT-TREES.

THE world doth take us captive with its wiles
Of vanity or pleasure. So our thoughts
Are scarce in unison with Nature’s grief,
When her sweet blossoms fade.
                            Yon stricken trees,
From whence glad Autumn gathereth plenteous
store
Of ruddy apples for the wintry eve,
Resign their radiant robes, and rich perfume,
That made the orchard like a queen’s levee,
And clad in russet garments, fleck’d with green,
Lamenting, teach the philosophic lore
Of brief prosperity.
                            That lofty pine,
Which, like some feudal baron from his tower,
Did awe the neighboring peasantry of shrubs,
Deplores that they should see his boasted
wealth
Stripp’d by each robber breeze.

A tint like snow, from the young Almond’s
charms
Strew’d lavishly around ; while, sick at heart,
The Peach, despairing mother, sees her babes
Dead at her feet.
                            Break forth in song, ye birds,
From your cool nests, or on the buoyant wing,
And be their comforters.
                            Uphold their hearts
With cheering descant of the season’s prime,
When their bereavement shall be lost in joy.
Tell them that man, their culturer, oft beholds
His beauty and his pride, like theirs, depart;
But yet, from what he counted loss, doth reap
A more enduring gain.
                            Yea, bid them bide
In faith and hope, the chastening of this hour,
Yielding their fragrance to the tyrant winds—
For God remembereth them.
                            Lift high your strain,
Minstrels of Heaven, and ask the sorrowing
trees
If those pale petals fell not, where would be
The glory of their fruitage ? or the praise
Of the Great Master at the Harvest Day ?

The flowers of Spring are so brilliant and beautiful, it’s a shame to lose them after only such a short time. Perhaps their quick lives are an ode to their beauty for nothing lasts forever.

Beauty fades. The best is yet to be.

Winter seems harsh and long, even when it’s mild, so that near its end we all pine for warmer days. When Spring does arrive in all its glory people come out from their hiding places to rejoice and feel the sunshine on their faces. We all seem to be in a good mood and smiles are everywhere you look.

I’m not sure if folks think delicious thoughts while looking at fruit tree blossoms, like, “Yum! Blueberry Buckle!”, in the same way I’ve heard a hungry person look at a cow in a field exclaim, “Yum! Steak!”

Gardeners will probably look forward to the harvest having witnessed the falling blooms for they know about their promises of goodness to come.

Come back next Friday for the next installment in our series of flower poems from Mrs. Sigourney’s The Voice of Flowers, “The Willow, Poppy, and Violet”.

Welcome back to Flower Poetry Fridays with Mrs. Sigourney. Each Friday a new poem will be posted from her The Voice Of Flowers.

A CIRCLE OF FRIENDS*
COMPARED TO FLOWERS.

Go seek the choicest sweets that Nature fair
Hath kindly trusted to the culturer’s care,—
Unfolding buds, with vernal dew-drops pure,
Resplendent flowers, that summer suns ma-
ture,
And changeless plants, whose firmer breasts
defy
The frosts of autumn, or the wintry sky.

Bring first the thornless Rose, of colors rare,
Fresh, bright, and graceful, from the florist’s
care,
That reared in bowers, where nought was ever
found
To chill, depress, contaminate, or wound,
Knows no dark art to rouse the breath of strife,
And bears enchantment for the vale of life.

Mark well yon Lily, on its stately stem,
Whose snowy leaves conceal a polish’d gem,
Thou may’st not miss it in the loveliest train,
Nor once beheld, forget its charms again ;
Go, bow to taste its fragrance, and request
The favoring presence of the cherish’d guest.
And thou, Mimosa, dear and trembling flower,
Come from thy cell, — unshrinking leave thy
bower ;
No pressure rude, thy folded buds shall harm,
No touch unkind thy tender leaves alarm ;
Though in the world’s rough journey thou
may’st fear
Unkindred spirits, none shall meet thee here ;

This gentle band are form’d with thee to feel,
And well they prize what thou would’st fain
conceal,
Come, loved and fearless, while our care shall
set
Fast by thy side, thy sister Violet,
Still cheerful, unobtrusive, and serene,
To grace the high, or deck the lowly scene ;
High be his bosom honor’d who shall gain
This as a solace, and a charm for pain.
The Woodbine next, whose graceful tendrils
twine
In sweet luxuriance round the parent vine,
Whose heaven-born fragrance breathes reviv-
ing power,
‘Neath dewy evening, or the summer shower,
Shall bless our wreath, for this can teach to
glow
The morn of pleasure, or the night of woe.
Thou, too, pale Lily, leave thy native vale,
And yield thine essence to our fresher gale,
What though thy bending head no gaze would
meet,
Thy perfume guides us to thy green retreat,
Where lingering zephyrs round thee gently
sigh,
And catch the tones of music as they fly.

The orange Cowslip, pure in heart, and gay,
Bestows its beauty on our fair bouquet,
Known by its sweetness, for its worth ap-
prov’d,
If seen, remember’d, if remember’d lov’d.

And there, " wee, modest, crimson-tipped
flower,"
Meek Mountain Daisy, pride of friendship’s
bower,
Come all unconscious of thy winning grace,
And lend thy lusture to our charmed vase.
Wilt thou, bright Pink, all graceful as thou
art,
Still ‘mid our circle form a cherish’d part ?
Or wouldst thou rather, in thy native glade,
Reserve thine incense for the healer’s aid ?

From beauty’s sheltered sphere roam onward
wide,
Invoking forms of loftier strength and pride,
That while the house-plants round the hearth
shall glow,
As future years the varied lot bestow,
Perchance strong conflict with the storm may
wage,
Or tower, the master spirits of the age.

Why do we ask the Laurel here to glow ?
Is it that fame or glory blind us ? No !
But that it hath a spirit nobly bold,
To bide the blast, or brave the tempest cold.
Not train’d by art, or nursed in idle ease,
Or taught to bow to what the world shall please,
But independent, and to honor true,
Might guard the weak, and charm the tasteful
too.

One, too, there is, whose latent virtues claim
Of constancy, the undisputed name ;
Who seeks, by shrinking in his favorite cell,
The applause to shun, that he deserves so well ;
Yet all in vain, for few can fail to prize
The hues that change not with the changing
skies.

Wilt thou, Oh Sage ! from cloistered study
deign
To heed our summons, and delight our train ?
" Cur moriator homo,"** might we say,
"Dum salvia crescit in horto," but the lay,
Cramp’d by the unyielding chains of Saxon
verse,
Suits not the Roman proverb, boldly terse ;
Still more unworthy is this pencil faint,
Thy many virtues, lenient Sage, to paint.

And thou, Geranium, half exotic, say,
Why art thou from the ancestral halls away ?
Thou need’st no gift that nature did not lend,
Or art improve, or cultivation blend :
Yet if thou better lov’st a sunnier sky,
Breathe there the fragrance that can never
die.
The meek Narcissus next invites our care,
With fragile stalk and efflorescence fair,
Which anxious friendship fears will scarce en-
dure
The world’s contagion, with a brow so pure ;
Yet this, perchance, may bear the dangerous
test,
For heaven’s own spirit lives within its breast.

Lure from its home, ‘mid green Vermonia’s
plain,
The English Holly to our classic train,
That fearless, firm, and scorning all disguise,
Where’er it dwells, points upward to the skies.

The Lilac, prompt to heed the call of Spring,
Shuns not the summons to our magic ring ;
We saw it o’er the way-side traveller cast
Shade from the heat, and covert from the blast,
Yet from the meed of fame retire, to throw
Its wealth of fragrance on the vale below.

And shall the verdant Myrtle be forgot,
All unassuming in its shaded spot ?
Perchance we may not win its wreathing vine
From Coke and Blackstone, where it fain
would twine,
Yet might it be persuaded thus to cheer
The glowing circle, it were welcome here.

The varied Tulip, versatile and gay,
With colors changing to the changing ray,
Attracts the stranger by its brilliant dye,
And with rich tissue charms the studious eye,
Yet better loves in southern climes to bide,
Than hear the accents of our praise or pride.

Now bind the treasur’d sweetness.
                                 Do you say
That aught is wanting ? There are none away.
A plant there is, indeed, from mountains
lone,
But blossom, flower, or fragrance, it hath none ;
Yet since ye call it forth, with friendship kind,
It hath a tendril round your stalks to bind,
A rustic shoot, the florist ne’er could teach,
Yet loves the brilliance it despairs to reach.

*At the dissolution of a Literary Society, whose members (nine
of each sex) were united in friendship as well as in intellectual
pursuit, it was proposed that some emblematic poem should
preserve the recollection of their pleasant intercourse. Thus
the foregoing poem, which has been hitherto unpublished, was
called into existence ; and a beautifully painted bouquet was
also executed by another member, in which the eighteen per-
sonified flowers were tastefully grouped.
The arbitrary signification of the inmates of Flora’s realm
not being as generally adopted at that period, as now, the se-
lections in the foregoing lines were founded less upon those,
than upon some supposed resemblance between the flowers and the character they typified. Now, at the expiration of a quar-
ter of a century, during which the spoiler has not left our cir-
cle unvisited, some of the passages acquire interest, as being
linked by tender associations to the memory of the departed
and beloved.

**It would seem that the ancient Romans had a high respect
for the salubrious properties of this plant, by the interrogative
adage, " Why need any man die, who has Sage in his gar-
den ?"

Writing this poem turned out to be a very nice way to remember a group of friends. It would have been nice to see the painting that represented their flower bouquet.

Each person of the group was written into the poem by describing them as flowers that shared their characteristics.

For example, a colorful member of the group was compared to the “varied Tulip, versatile and gay”, while someone else was likened to a thornless Rose, who never depressed, contaminated or wounded another soul.

Like the Tulip and Rose, the literary society members were compared to the Lily, Mimosa, Violet, Woodbine, Cowslip, Mountain Daisy, Pink, house-plants, Laurel, Sage, Geranium, Narcissus, Vermonia, English Holly, Lilac and Myrtle.

By the way “Vermonia” most likely refers to “Vernonia“, a genus of shrub-like plants in the Aster Family.

Judging by their floral bouquet, the society must have been an impressive group of people who enjoyed intellectual pursuits.

Once again, I enjoyed the comparision that Mrs. Sigourney makes between people and the flowers that they are most like. It sort of brings the garden alive, doesn’t it?

Come back next Friday for the next installment in our series of flower poems from Mrs. Sigourney’s The Voice of Flowers, “Blossoms Falling From The Fruit-Trees”.

Flowers aren’t the first thing you’ll notice about black snakeroot, but the spiny capsules that hold the tiny flowers are a little more eye-catching.

As far as why this plant is called snakeroot is a guess, but it probably has something to do with folk medicine where the leaves may have been used to poultice snakebite wounds.

A few plants seem to go by the common name of “Black Snakeroot” and the one photographed here is Canadian Blacksnakeroot. (Photos taken 6 July 2015. Click on a photo for a larger image.)

Canadian Blacksnakeroot, Sanicula canadensis, also known as Black Sanicle, has palmate leaves that are slightly deceiving.

What at first appears to be five leaflets is actually three leaflets having the outer two deeply cleft. Related species may look like they have seven leaflets while they really have five due to the shape of the outer leaflets.

This particular woodland herbaceous plant is growing in an open grassy area at the edge of the oak forest. Shade is where I’ve seen this plant before — along walkways, lanes and trails in wooded areas.

Fruit is a spiny capsule that has a way of sticking to socks, boot laces, jeans and animal fur to be deposited at random locations some distance from the mother plant. What a great survival strategy for this member of the Parsley Family!

Each capsule contains two seeds for starting the next generation.

Standing a few inches to over a foot in the air, the spiny fruits stick out just waiting for someone to brush by.

Close-up views show hooks on the ends of the spines for easy grabbing of fur and snagging of socks.

Flowers are really little and easily missed. Look at the top of a spiny capsule to see a tiny white flower with brown stamens. Flowering occurs in early to mid-summer in Central PA.

If you’ve ever taken a hike in the woods or played around the creek as a kid, you’ve probably picked up a few of the seed capsules unintentionally. The next time you experience the pokey seed carriers personally, you’ll know they were from a Black Snakeroot plant.

Welcome back to Flower Poetry Fridays with Mrs. Sigourney. Each Friday a new poem will be posted from her The Voice Of Flowers.

FORGOTTEN FLOWERS.
TO A BRIDE. *

We were left behind, but we would not stay,
We found your clue, and have kept the way,
For, sooth to say, the track was plain,
Of a bliss like yours in a world of pain.
How little we thought, when so richly we
drest,
To go to your wedding, and vie with the best,
When we made our toilette with such elegant
care,
That we might not disgrace an occasion so rare;
To be whirl’d in a coach at this horrible rate,
From county to county, and State to State !
Though we travel’d incog, yet we trembled
with fear,
For the accents of strangers fell hoarse on our
ear.

We could hear every word, as we quietly lay,
In the snug box of tin, where they stow’d us
away,
And how would our friends at a distance have
known,
If charm’d by our beauty, they’d made us their
own ?
All unus’d to the taverns, and roads, as we
were,
Our baggage and bones were a terrible care,
But we’ve scap’d every peril, the journey is
o’er,
And hooded and cloak’d, we are safe at your
door.
We bring you a gift from your native skies,
The chrystal gem from Affection’s eyes,
Which tenderly trickles, when dear ones part,
We have wrapp’d it close in the rose’s heart ;
We are charged with a mother’s benison kiss ;
Will you welcome us into your halls for this?
We are chilled with the cold of our wintry
way,
Our message is done, we must fade away,
Let us die on your breast, and our prayer shall
be,
An Eden’s wreath for thy love and thee.

*An elegant bouquet, sent as a nuptial present, arrived just as
the bride had taken her departure for her new home in a neigh-
boring State, and were sent after her, in the stage coach, and
reached her without injury, in the depth of winter.

That’s great that the flowers got to the bride without harm. Good thing it was winter for the pretty gift wouldn’t have been the same in the middle of summer.

As I was reading this poem I imagined the flowers resting in the stagecoach — the tin box — for their rough ride to the next State. It must have cost a bit to have the flowers sent by horse and carriage, but they escaped every peril to complete the journey.

It’s a lovely passage that describes the gift:

We bring you a gift from your native skies,
The chrystal gem from Affection’s eyes,
Which tenderly trickles, when dear ones part,
We have wrapp’d it close in the rose’s heart ;

The bride will feel the flower giver’s affection while taking in the beauty and essence of the roses in the elegant bouquet.

Flowers speak to us, don’t they?

Come back next Friday for the next installment in our series of flower poems from Mrs. Sigourney’s The Voice of Flowers, “A Circle of Friends Compared to Flowers”.