Jack-in-the-pulpit
Preaches to-day
Under the green trees
Just over the way.
Squirrel and song-sparrow,
High on their perch,
Hear the sweet lily-bells
Ringing to church.
Come, hear what his reverence
Rises to say–
In his low, painted pulpit,
This calm Sabbath day.
Fair is the canopy
Over him seen,
Pencilled by Nature's hand,
Black, brown, and green.
Green is his surplice,
Green are his bands;
In his queer little pulpit,
The little priest stands.
In black and gold velvet,
So gorgeous to see,
Comes with his bass voice,
The chorister bee.
Green fingers are playing
Unseen on wind-lyres,
Low singing bird voices–
These are the choirs.
The violets are deacons,
I know by the sign
That the cups which they carry
Are purple with wine.
And the columbines bravely
As sentinels stand,
On the lookout with all their
Red trumpets in hand.
Meek-faced anemones,
Drooping and said;
Great yellow violets,
Smiling out glad;
Buttercup's faces,
Beaming and bright;
Clovers with bonnets–
Some red and some white;
Daisies, their white fingers
Half clasped in prayer;
Dandelions, proud of
The gold in their hair;
Innocents, children,
Guileless and frail,
Meek little faces,
Upturned and pale;
Wildwood geraniums,
All in their best,
Languidly beaming,
In purple gauze dressed.
All are assembled
This sweet Sabbath day,
To hear what the priest
In his pulpit will say.
Look! white Indian pipes
On the green mosses lie!
Who has been smoking
Profanely, so nigh?
Rebuked by the preacher,
The mischief is stopped;
But the sinners in haste
Have their little pipes dropped.
Let the wind with the fragrance
Of fern and of birch
Blow the smell of the smoking
Clean out of our church!
So much for the preacher:
The sermon comes next–
Shall we tell how he preached it,
And what was his text?
Alas! like too many
Grown-up folks who play
At worship in churches
Man builded to-day–
We heard not the preacher
Expound or discuss;
But we looked at the people,
And they looked at us.
We saw all their dresses,
Their colours and shapes;
The trim of their bonnets,
The cut of their capes;
We heard the wind organ,
The bee and the bird,
But of Jack-in-the-pulpit
We heard not a word.–Clara Smith
Outside in the hall there was the stealthy tread of two little pairs of feet. There was the gentlest of little taps. There was a warning "Sh." Then mamma cried, "Come in."
Jack opened the door, and Phyllis entered, with her hands behind her. Jack followed, with his hands behind him.
"Guess, mamma, dear!" cried Phyllis. "Guess what we have for you!"
"An apple?" guessed mamma.
"Something sweeter," said Phyllis.
"Candy?"
"Something sweeter," said Phyllis. "Do you give up?"
"I give up," said mamma.
The little girl placed a basket of forget-me-nots on the broad, flat arm of her mother's chair.
The little boy placed a basket of pansies in full bloom on the other arm of the chair.
"Oh," cried mamma, "how lovely! It's like bringing the garden into the room."
"Just what we said," Jack cried. "We saw these baskets of flowers as we came up from the square, and we bought them for you. You see they are planted and blossoming nicely for you. They will be just right for your window. Shall we put them there?"
"By and by," said mamma. "I want to see first if these flowers will talk to me as they do to Phyllis."
"Why, of course," said Phyllis. "I only get their secrets by watching."
"I know a lovely name for the pansy," said mamma. "My grandmother used to call pansies heartsease. I always think of her when I look into their bright little faces.
"The pansy is a relative of the violet, you know. In fact, I think it is a violet grown more gorgeous by cultivation."
"Yes," said Phyllis, "it has five petals, just as the violet has. The two upper ones are larger and longer than the other."
"Just look at the soft, velvety colours," said Jack. "See how they nod on their green stems. Never more than one blossom on a stalk, is there?"
"No, no," laughed Phyllis. "And look the heart-shaped leaves. They are thick and strong and green."
"I believe I like the forget-me-not best," said mamma. "It belongs to an entirely different family. It is not so gorgeous as the pansy, but it blossoms all summer long, just as the pansy does, and its blossoms seem to look up at one like little blue eyes uplifted.
"Look at the delicate blossoms in tiny bunches. Do you see how round and flat the corolla is? We call it salver shaped. A salver, you know, is a flat tray–and that is the reason we say the forget-me-not is salver shaped.
"Its leaves do not grow as pansy leaves do. They grow upon the stem with the blossoms, and there are many of them. They alternate upon the stem, and they are small and pointed."
"Does it grow only in gardens?" Jack asked.
"Oh, no, indeed; in some places it grows wild, in low, wet places, or on the banks of streams. But I shall be very happy with these little blossoms on my window-sill. Will you put them there for me now?"
"Mamma," said Phyllis, "I found a little forget-me-not poem yesterday. Shall I say it for you before we go?"
"Yes, indeed, that would be a very sweet way of saying good night."
So Phyllis placed the baskets in the window, and, coming back, stood before her mother and repeated these lines:
"When to the flowers so beautiful,
The Father gave a name,
Back came a little blue-eyed one,
All timidly it came.
And standing at its Father's feet,
And gazing in his face,
It said in low and trembling tones,
And with a modest grace,
'Dear God, the name thou gavest me,
Alas, I have forgot.'
The Father kindly looked Him down,
And said, 'Forget-me-not.' "
Mamma's eyes were closed when Phyllis finished, and the children tiptoed softly out of the room.