A pathway intersects the little wood,
and across it shadows of the trees fall, with sunlight between. In the
foremost patch of sunshine, at the edge of the path, is a sprinkling of
anemone leaves. And there amongst them a delicate blossom, half crushed
by the superincumbent weight of moss, the fallen leaves of last year,
and tiny, lichen-covered twigs. The white, transparent petals are soiled
and deformed, thrust down to the earth. As Hazel looks, regretting that
she has not the power to stretch forth her hand and clear away the
destructive weight, the leaves and twigs tremble, and are uplifted, and
fall away from the slender plant, for close beside it a hardy little
fern frond slowly uncurls itself and arises. The frail blossom stirs
slightly, released from the overwhelming pressure; but has no strength
to do more. Oh, for water to revive it! And, lo! from the fair green
fern drops of dew embosomed there are shed and scattered over the
downcast head. They are drunk in, and by degrees the drooping cup is
raised to the friendly fern. And then, the straight young frond, itself
ever growing, waves aside in a natural, graceful sweep, and allows the
sunshine in all its strong radiance and reviving force to fall full on
the flower.
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