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Updated: June 13, 2025
In each tangled ravine Flora's little pious mortals of the May anemone, yellow violet, blood-root, mustard, liverwort, and their yet humbler neighbors and kin heard mass, or held meeting whichever it was and slept for blissful lack of brain while Jack-in-the-pulpit preached to them, under Solomon's seal, and oriole, tanager, warbler, thrush, up in the choir-loft, made love between the hymns, ate tidbits, and dropped crumbs upon wake-robin, baby-toes, and the nodding columbine.
Among the dead leaves of the woods, the snowy blossoms of the blood-root had already burst forth in starry clusters; the anemones trembled between the sheltering knees of the old oaks, and here and there a single buttercup dropped its gold on the meadows. These things were so many presentiments of brighter days in Nature, and they awoke a corresponding faith in her own heart.
Always a basket for flowers went along; and when the sled stopped, she would wander all around seeking among the piled-up dead leaves for the white wind-flower, and pretty little hang-head uvularia, and delicate blood-root, and the wild geranium and columbine; and many others, the names of which she did not know.
Thus the blood-root, with its red juice, was supposed to be useful in blood diseases, in stopping hemorrhage, or in subduing the redness of an inflammation. Paracelsus's system of signatures, however, was so complicated by his theories of astronomy and alchemy that it is practically beyond comprehension.
The blood-root, the hepatica, and the wild ginger are showing big and healthy leaves, but the few lady slippers, here and there, have faded almost beyond recognition. When the summer shower patters down among the leaves the music of the insect orchestra ceases and the performers shield their instruments with their wings. It passes and gleams of sunshine make jewels of the raindrops.
The blood-root lifted its lily-white blossoms to the light, and the cream-tinted, fragile bells of the uvularia nestled by its side. Passing the wood and its embroidered flowery border, a brook ran across the road.
"Here's a little moss and a few blood-root flowers, and Will Johnson carried home a big bouquet of wild bleeding-hearts." "That makes me think, Charlie, of a myth there is about the first anemones." "A myth? What is that, mother? Oh, I know, John," said Charlie; "it is one of those stories that people used to believe just as we used to believe in Santa Claus.
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