uried it up; but next day the snow was all melted, and the leaves came
out as green, and the flower as yellow, and the whole plant as plucky,
as ever. I should say the flower was about as large round as a very
small pea, and it was just as yellow as gold; and the whole wee thing
was not taller than a common-sized pin.

"We talked so much about this little flower that we got to making rhymes
about it; and, every time we made a new rhyme, we were much delighted,
you may be sure. How we wished we had some way to write down what we
thought! It would have been much easier, and a great satisfaction. But,
for all that, we finally got quite a song of it, which I have not
forgotten, even to this time. To be sure we did not know much about
making verses, and nothing at all about what they call 'feet' in poetry;
yet we got some pretty good rhymes for all, though they might be called
a little worm-fency, or like as if they hadn't got their sea-legs on,
you know. Now, would you like to hear this little song that the Dean and
I made about the little Arctic flower?"

"O yes, yes, dear Captain Hardy!--yes, yes, indeed!" said the children,
in such a loud and universal chorus that nobody could have told who
"deared" the Captain, or who said "O," or who, "indeed"; but you may be
sure they all said "yes!" and so the Captain, being thus encouraged,
cleared his throat, and said he would repeat it.

"My impression is," he continued, "that it isn't exactly a song; in
fact, I don't know what it is. I should hardly venture on calling it a
'poem,' you see; but still, for all that, we must give it a name, you
know, and 'song,' 'poem,' or what not, its right title anyhow is:--

THE ARCTIC FLOWER.

O tiny, tiny Arctic flower
Where have you kept yourself so long?
Deep buried in a snowy bower?
And did the winter treat you wrong?
You little, smiling, gladsome thing!
You pretty, pretty flower of spring!
You little, little, wee, wee thing!
So bright, so cheery in the sun,
So everything that every one
Would wish a flower to bring.
You tiny, tiny little thing!
I'm so afraid the frosts will nip
Your little feet, you tenderling,
You crazy, crazy little thing!
What e'er possessed you to come up
And nestle there beside the snow,
As if you'd warm it with a glow
Of golden light from your bright face,
On which there is no single trace
Of