United States or Ireland ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Fire in the sky, fire on the sea, fire on the ships, fire in the flowers, fire in the trees of the forest; fire in the Poinsetta bushes which flash their red flames from every yard and jungle. In the tropical lands flowers do not burst into blossom; they burst into flame. Great bushes of flaming Poinsetta, as large as American lilac bushes, burst into flame over night in Manila.
One, the Begonia, resembles our honeysuckle, but the flower is larger and hangs in large clusters; the second, called the Bouganviella, is purple in color and like our morning- glory, and the two are often seen climbing together up tall trees almost to their very tops, covering them with a mass of flowers. The third favorite, Poinsetta, is a leaf of rich magenta color.
"Poinsetta!" "Pretty nearly," she agreed, critically. I took the soft crepe between my fingers. "Poet!" she smiled. "No, it isn't quite poinsetta. It's nearer the red-orange of a tree I remember one autumn, in the White Mountains, with the setting sun on it. But that wasn't what we were talking about. Laurels! Your laurels." "My laurels," I repeated. "Such as they are, I fling them into your lap."
On the way the German plucked a dozen scarlet roses, a late geranium or two and a few leaves of motley Poinsetta. Wholesome paused a moment to greet quietly the new-comer, and straightway betook himself absently to his walk again to and fro across the garden. Mistress White would have had the old overseer take her seat, but this he would not do.
There are also gardens for all the gorgeous flowers of Java: the frangipani, the wax-white, gold-centered flower of the dead, the red and yellow lantanas, the scarlet poinsetta, the crimson bougainvillea, and others in bewildering variety.
"Poinsetta!" "Pretty nearly," she agreed, critically. I took the soft crepe between my fingers. "Poet!" she smiled. "No, it isn't quite poinsetta. It's nearer the red-orange of a tree I remember one autumn, in the White Mountains, with the setting sun on it. But that wasn't what we were talking about. Laurels! Your laurels." "My laurels," I repeated. "Such as they are, I fling them into your lap."
"Poinsetta!" "Pretty nearly," she agreed, critically. I took the soft crepe between my fingers. "Poet!" she smiled. "No, it isn't quite poinsetta. It's nearer the red-orange of a tree I remember one autumn, in the White Mountains, with the setting sun on it. But that wasn't what we were talking about. Laurels! Your laurels." "My laurels," I repeated. "Such as they are, I fling them into your lap."
Word Of The Day