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Updated: June 28, 2025
"What is the matter, father?" asked little Marygold, gazing at him with the tears still standing in her eyes. "Nothing, child, nothing," said Midas. "Eat your milk before it gets quite cold." He took one of the nice little trouts on his plate, and, by way of experiment, touched its tail with his finger.
"Wasn't old Clayton a mere petty dealer in small wares. And wasn't Mrs. Clayton's father a mechanic?" "Perhaps, if some of us were to go back for a generation or two, we might trace out an ancestor who held no higher place in society," Mrs. Lemmington remarked, quietly. "I have no doubt but that I should." "I have no fears of that kind," replied Mrs. Marygold, in an exulting tone.
The following I have experienced to be an extraordinary Cheese; in some places 'tis call'd the Golden Cheese, and in others the Marygold Cheese, which it is properly. The Juice of the Marygolds adds a very great richness to the Milk, and contributes almost as much to it as Cream would do. The following is the Receipt to make it. To make Marygold Cheese.
The reason of her concern and Melinda's disappointment arose from the fact that both had felt pretty sure of securing Henry Florence as a member of the Marygold family such connection, from his standing in society, being especially desirable. At the very time the young man was thus alluded to by Mrs.
Marygold, notwithstanding her boast in regard to pedigree, there were not a few who could remember when her grandfather carried a pedlar's pack on his back and an honest and worthy pedlar he was, saving his pence until they became pounds, and then relinquishing his peregrinating propensities, for the quieter life of a small shop-keeper. His son, the father of Mrs.
Her daughters, who came in while she sat conversing with their mother, showed themselves to possess all those graces of mind and manner that win upon our admiration so irresistably. An hour passed quickly and pleasantly, and then Mrs. Lemmington withdrew. The difference between Mrs. Lemmington and Mrs. Marygold was simply this.
"I don't care for such roses as this!" cried Marygold, tossing it contemptuously away. "It has no smell, and the hard petals prick my nose!" The child now sat down to table, but was so occupied with her grief for the blighted roses that she did not even notice the wonderful transmutation of her china bowl.
When Lady Augustus reached Marygold the family were at lunch, and as strangers were present nothing was said as to the great mission.
It would be too sad a story if I were to tell you how Midas, in the fullness of all his gratified desires, began to wring his hands and bemoan himself, and how he could neither bear to look at Marygold, nor yet to look away from her. Except when his eyes were fixed on the image, he could not possibly believe that she was changed to gold.
Every morning bore testimony to the ravages of the preceding night in cabbages of all ages and conditions, from the tender sprout to the full-grown head, piteously rooted from their quiet beds like worthless weeds, and left to wither in the sunshine. It was in vain Wolfert's wife remonstrated; it was in vain his darling daughter wept over the destruction of some favorite marygold.
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