s, they as yet stood silent above us,
only the Holly was still decked with gay scarlet berries, enlivening up
the gloomy landscape with a little bright colour. But the Holly smiled
not on us; armed at all points in his glossy coat of shining mail, he
was so lofty and grand, and we were only--Snowdrops!

But I grew on, cherished by our great Mother Nature, who careth for all
her children, and loves them tenderly, be they humble Daisies or the
queenly Rose; and at last I became a perfect flower, taking my pure
white tints from the snow around me, and borrowing just a faint tinge of
green from the young grass that was now bravely struggling to appear.

By and by, a Blackbird, with golden beak and shining coat, found me out
as he was seeking a convenient tree in which to make a nest, and, bowing
politely, exclaimed,--

'Welcome to you, fair Snowdrop! I am rejoiced to see you, for you bring
us the assurance that spring is on the way, and we shall be glad, for
the winter has been long and dreary.'

Then he having communicated the glad tidings to the other birds, they
also came to greet me, cheering my loneliness with their sweet songs.
Yet still I pined to return to earth again; I cared not to look upward,
but hung my head, murmuring sadly,--

'Oh, Mother Earth, take home thy child! she is so weary of her life
here.'

Was I wrong? Perhaps so, but I owed my existence to that which mortals
deem so cold and dark; I loved it with the affection of a loving child,
and longed to rest again upon the dear bosom that had sheltered me when
I was but a frail bulb.

Besides, it seemed to me that I was doing no good. Why was I sent here,
if only to bloom and then die? I had been told that nothing was created
in vain; was I doing the work for which I had been sent upon the earth?

Whilst thus repining over my useless life, a poet passed by
chance--stay, was it chance? nay, there is no chance! He was one who as
yet had met with but little success; I am told there are many such among
earth's children. We know that it is said:

'Many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air;'

yet the sweetness is not _lost_, for it speaks with a perfumed voice to
the creatures of the air; but among mortals, many fade away into utter
oblivion, breathing only their sad, sweet heart-songs to the listening
winds around.

And this poet of whom I speak, he felt within himself the inspiration
of genius, th