Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 1).pdf/432



It is the bluebell,—ringing in for all Young hearts life's joyous Whitsun festival.

No, 'tis an evergreen,—as fresh and gay In desolate December as in May.

No, Iceland moss, dry gathered,—far the best Cure for young ladies with a wounded breast.

No, the wild chestnut tree,—in high repute For household fuel, but with a bitter fruit.

No, a camellia; at our balls, 'tis said, The chief adornment of a lady's head.

No, it is like a flower, O such a bright one;— Stay now—a blue one, no, it was a white one— What is its name—? Dear me—the one I met—; Well it is singular how I forget!

None of these flower similitudes will run. The flowerpot is a likelier candidate. There's only room in it, at once, for one; But by progressive stages it holds eight