And bloomed despite my careless feet;
They spread the grassy orchard o'er,
And blossomed gaily 'mong the wheat—
We never for their brightness paid—
I love these careless things," she said.
At this I quoted Robbie Burns
To prove her careless favorites frail;
And thus we bandied words by turns,
Barren of import to this tale,
Till memories that were long-time dead
Revived at touch of loving hands.
"The sisters of these flowers," she said,
"Are blooming in far-distant lands—
In earth the sun last looks upon,
Where rolls the rock-vexed Oregon."
"Ah!" then I asked to know the rest—
What fate had plumed her poppy seeds,
To bear them to that wondrous West,
Where hardly winged fancy leads—
So long the distance, strange the road.
"Their wings were tender woman hands,
And gentle feet, that heavenward trode
In toiling to those savage lands."
"And she who owned them?" "With her blood
She sealed her Christian womanhood."
40
