invitation the ladies sit down. The rest of the
company take their places, partly on the verandah
and in the summer-house, partly in the garden.
FALK sits on the verandah. During the following
scene they drink tea.

MRS. HALM [smiling].
And so our little storm is overblown.
Such summer showers do good when they are gone;
The sunshine greets us with a double boon,
And promises a cloudless afternoon.

MISS JAY.
Ah yes, Love's blossom without rainy skies
Would never thrive according to our wishes.

FALK.
In dry land set it, and it forthwith dies;
For in so far the flowers are like the fishes--

SVANHILD.
Nay, for Love lives, you know, upon the air--

MISS JAY.
Which is the death of fishes--

FALK.
So I say.

MISS JAY.
Aha, we've put a bridle on you there!

MRS. STRAWMAN.
The tea is good, one knows by the bouquet.

FALK.
Well, let us keep the simile you chose.
Love is a flower; for if heaven's blessed rain
Fall short, it all but pines to death-- [Pauses.

MISS JAY.
What then?

FALK [with a gallant bow].
Then come the aunts with the reviving hose.--
But poets have this simile employed,
And men for scores of centuries enjoyed,--
Yet hardly one its secret sense has hit;
For flowers are manifold and infinite.
Say, then, what flower is love? Name me, who knows,
The flower most like it?

MISS JAY.
Why, it is the rose;
Good gracious, that's exceedingly well known;--
Love, all agree, lends life a rosy tone.

A YOUNG LADY.
It is the snowdrop; growing, snow enfurled;
Till it peer forth, undreamt of by the world.

AN AUNT.
It is the dandelion,--made robust
By dint of human heel and horse hoof thrust;
Nay, shooting forth afresh when it is smitten,
As Pedersen so charmingly has written.

LIND.
It is the bluebell,--ringing in for all
Young hearts life's joyous Whitsun festival.

MRS. HALM.
No, 'tis an evergreen,--as fresh and gay
In desolate December as in May.

GULDSTAD.
No, Iceland moss, dry gathered,--far the best
Cure for young ladies with a wounded breast.

A GENTLEMAN.
No, the wild chestnut tree,--high repute
For household fuel, but with a bitter fruit.

SVANHILD.
No, a camellia; at our balls, 'tis said,
The chief adornment of a lady's head.

MRS. STRAWMAN.
No, it is like a flower, O such a bright one;--
Stay now--a blue one, no, it was a white one--
What i