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Updated: June 4, 2025
"Is it unnatural?" inquired a beautiful Convolvulus Major, from the top of a tapering fir-pole, up which she had crept, and from which her velvet flowers hung suspended like purple gems. "I smile at your question," was the answer of the Wind. "You surely cannot suppose that in a natural state you would be forced to climb regularly up one tall bare stick such as I see you upon now. Oh dear, no!
"They're gone," he said sadly. "Yes," said Alfred, laughing; "but only to fetch the fir-pole." "Do you think so?" sighed the monk. "Yes; they're afraid of my telling mother and making her angry. She doesn't like us to do cruel things: she'd tell us we were like the Danes. They'll come back soon with the pole, and then if you hold one end we can pull the other and draw you out.
"Come yourself, if you dare! Father Swythe will help me, and we'll duck you." "Urrr!" growled Bald, stamping with rage. Then: "Never mind, boys: let them stop together. Give him a Latin lesson, Father Swythe." "You stop a moment, all three of you," cried Alfred sharply. "You're not going away to leave Father Swythe like this. Go and fetch the big fir-pole that we laid across to begin the dam.
Oh that she were once more climbing up the friendly fir-pole! The Honeysuckle escaped no better; and the Carnation was ready to die of vexation, at finding that her coveted freedom had levelled her to the dirt. Before the day closed, the gardener came whistling from his farm work, to look over his pretty charges.
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