Well, this June morning, as I was saying, when the flowers, as they were waked from their sleep by the sunbeams which came to kiss away the tears night had shed over them, opened their eyes and looked about them, they were surprised and offended to see a stranger in their company.

There had been, through all the season, some little rivalries and jealousies among the flowers; but from the glances which they turned on each other, this morning, it was evident that their feelings towards the stranger were exactly alike.  However, as might be expected from their different dispositions, they expressed their dislike and contempt for her in different ways; but at first all hesitated to address her, for no one seemed to find language strong enough to express the scorn they felt for her; until the balsam, who never could keep silent long, inquired of the stranger, in a very impatient tone, what was her name, and how she came there.

The poor thing hesitated an instant, and her face grew very red; she must have known that her presence in that company was very much undesired, and when she spoke, it was in a low and embarrassed tone.

“My name is Papaver, and—­”

But the Marygold laughed aloud.  “Papaver!” she repeated in her most scornful tone; “she is nothing more nor less than a Poppy—­a great offensive Poppy, whose breath fairly makes me sick.  Long ago, when—­”

But here the Marygold stopped short, it would not do, to confess to her genteel friends, that she had formerly been acquainted with the disreputable stranger.  They did not heed her embarrassment, however, for every one, now that the silence was broken, was anxious to speak; all but the Mimosa, who could not utter a word, for she had fainted quite away—­the red Rose who was very diffident, and the Dahlia who was too dignified to meddle with such trifling affairs.

“You great, red-faced thing!” said the Carnation, “how came you here in your ragged dress?  Do you know what kind of company you are in?  Who first saw her here?”

“I saw her,” said the Morning Glory, who usually waked quite early, “I saw her before she had got her eyes open; and what do you suppose she had on her head?  Why a little green cap which she has just pulled off and thrown away.  There it lies on the ground now.  Only look at it! no wonder she was ashamed of it.  Can you think what she wore it for?”

“Why, yes!” said the Ladies’ Slipper.  “She is so handsome and so delicate that she was fearful the early hours might injure her health and destroy her charms!”

“No, no!” interrupted another; “she was afraid the morning breeze might steal away her sweet breath!”

“You had better gather up your sweet leaves, and put on your cap again,” said the London Pride.  “I see a golden-winged butterfly in Calla’s cup; your spicy breath will soon bring him here to drink of your nectar!”

The most of the flowers laughed, but the Carnation still called out—­“How came she here?”