'T was there we found our mayflowers , after faithful seeking . Mayflowers , you must know , never flaunt themselves ; they must be sought as becomes them , and then they will yield up their treasures to the seeker -- clusters of star-white and dawn-pink that have in them the very soul of all the springs that ever were , re-incarnated in something it seems gross to call perfume , so exquisite and spiritual is it . We wandered gaily over the hill , calling to each other with laughter and jest , getting parted and delightfully lost in that little pathless wilderness , and finding each other unexpectedly in nooks and dips and sunny silences , where the wind purred and gentled and went softly . When the sun began to hang low , sending great fan-like streamers of radiance up to the zenith , we foregathered in a tiny , sequestered valley , full of young green fern , lying in the shadow of a wooded hill . In it was a shallow pool -- a glimmering green sheet of water on whose banks nymphs might dance as blithely as ever they did on Argive hill or in Cretan dale . There we sat and stripped the faded leaves and stems from our spoil , making up the blossoms into bouquets to fill our baskets with sweetness . The Story Girl twisted a spray of divinest pink in her brown curls , and told us an old legend of a beautiful Indian maiden who died of a broken heart when the first snows of winter were falling , because she believed her long-absent lover was false . But he came back in the spring time from his long captivity ; and when he heard that she was dead he sought her grave to mourn her , and lo , under the dead leaves of the old year he found sweet sprays of a blossom never seen before , and knew that it was a message of love and remembrance from his dark-eyed sweet-heart . `` Except in stories Indian girls are called squaws , '' remarked practical Dan , tying his mayflowers together in one huge , solid , cabbage-like bunch . Not for Dan the bother of filling his basket with the loose sprays , mingled with feathery elephant 's - ears and trails of creeping spruce , as the rest of us , following the Story Girl 's example , did . Nor would he admit that ours looked any better than his . `` I like things of one kind together . I do n't like them mixed , '' he said . `` You have no taste , '' said Felicity . `` Except in my mouth , best beloved , '' responded Dan . `` You do think you are so smart , '' retorted Felicity , flushing with anger . `` Do n't quarrel this lovely day , '' implored Cecily . `` Nobody 's quarrelling , Sis . I ai n't a bit mad . It 's Felicity .
What on earth is that at the bottom of your basket , XXXXX ? ''
Cecily Dan Indian Mayflowers day first quarrelling squaws streamers sweet-heart