"But fairer than all flowers, First-born of sun and showers, Is the Arbutus, jewel of the spring." - H. H.

LISTEN to the story of the arbutus, if you would know what it is, where it grows, how and why it finds its way to distant hearts and homes.

Listen, if you would understand the Puritan flower, modest, simple and sweet:

"We belong to a grand old family called ericacae. Botan-its call us Epigaa repens, because we 'trail upon the earth;' but we like best to be called by the prettier name of trailing arbutus. Among our many cousins we number the laurels, rhododendrons and azaleas, which flourish on your lawns and in your greenhouses. We are kin to the delicate pyrola, the Princess Pine, and the good old-fashioned wintergreen ; but you would not dream that we could also claim the ghostly Indian pipe, that parasitic ne'er-do-well, that ap-. pears in June and steals a living for a month or two.

"Let me take you '... on and up. Where Nature's heart Beats strong among the hills ' place you on a grassy knoll sloping gently toward the west; here is a shallow ravine; low shrubs are abundant as well as the ground pine.

"A cry of delight escapes you. Ah ! you see us ! a perfect mat at your feet, rivalling the Persian designs which you think so beautiful. Our pink and white blossoms are half hidden by delicate mosses and our own green and russet leaves. Nothing is quite perfect in this world, they say, and we must own that our leaves are not pretty. They were made for use - to protect our tender buds through the long winter, to breathe for us the strong, invigorating air of early spring, that we may be ready to smile when the warm sun and gentle rains touch us.

"Fill your basket where you are if you like; but, as you cannot take us all, why not pick for the best?

"Go higher up the hill; around those little pine trees you may find the largest, sweetest clusters of all nestled under the silver threads of last year's grasses. We see a deal of life, for our * spring opening' is eagerly looked for by young and old.

"Troops of merry children come, and our hill rings with the voices of 'glad boys and girls.'

"We sometimes wonder, when the sky is so blue over our heads and rosy-faced children are picking our blossoms for the tired mothers, who must stay at home, if it is not true that "' Children and flowers Lie very close to God.'

Now and then an old man comes to gather a few flowers for a sick grand-child ; he is very old, and his wrinkled hands tremble so as he bends over us that we wish for his sake we could grow taller and be more easily picked.

"A shy young man comes all alone ; he finds the choicest flowers that grow; we can guess their mission, for though the arbutus

"' Looks so shy and innocent, Blushes like a startled thing, Who would think it knew the whole Of the secrets of the spring?'

" Sometimes a coy maiden sends us to a distant 'friend,'and we laugh in our sleeves as we hear that 'friend' say 'his aunt sent them !'

"Real flower lovers come often ; for them each time we

"'Sing a more wonderful song, Or tell a more marvelous tale.'

"But there is more prose than poetry in all our lives. Fair skies and gentle breezes will not keep cut-flowers from wilting. We are growing faint and weary, so they hurry home with us, place us in pans of water in a cool, damp cellar, where we drink and drink until we are full of moisture and well equipped for the journey before us.

"Skillful fingers fashion us into dainty bouquets - flat on one side, remember; then each bunch is sewed, yes, actually sewed to the bottom and sides of a strong pasteboard box ; sprays of damp moss are sprinkled over us; we are properly done up, and off we go by mail or express.

" It makes no difference now how roughly we are handled, for we are not beating our rose-colored heads off against the sides of tin boxes. Could you but witness our reception when the box is opened, perhaps in some distant city home, and hear the exclamations of delight as we fill the air with our 'strange and wonderful sweetness,'you would understand that we came to gladden the hearts of all who see us, to make new friends and cheer our old ones.

"Busy, care-worn people pause to look at us, friends of childhood days, and as they gently touch our dainty blossoms, lo ! for them,

"'The soft south wind of memory blows.'"

G. A. Woolson.