The Pot of Gold | Page 2

best to remedy it.
He saw that every one of his children's names were suitable and
accorded with their personal characteristics; and in his
flower-garden--for he raised flowers for the market--only those of
complementary colors were allowed to grow in adjoining beds, and, as
often as possible, they rhymed in their names. But that was a more
difficult matter to manage, and very few flowers were rhymed, or, if
they were, none rhymed correctly. He had a bed of box next to one of
phlox, and a trellis of woodbine grew next to one of eglantine, and a
thicket of elder-blows was next to one of rose; but he was forced to let
his violets and honeysuckles and many others go entirely
unrhymed--this disturbed him considerably, but he reflected that it was
not his fault, but that of the man who made the language and named the
different flowers--he should have looked to it that those of
complementary colors had names to rhyme with each other, then all
would have been harmonious and as it should have been.
Father Flower had chosen this way of earning his livelihood when he
realized that he was doomed to be an unappreciated poet, because it
suited so well with his name; and if the flowers had only rhymed a little
better he would have been very well contented. As it was, he never
grumbled. He also saw to it that the furniture in his little house and the
cooking utensils rhymed as nearly as possible, though that too was

oftentimes a difficult matter to bring about, and required a vast deal of
thought and hard study. The table always stood under the gable end of
the roof, the foot-stool always stood where it was cool, and the big
rocking-chair in a glare of sunlight; the lamp, too, he kept down cellar
where it was damp. But all these were rather far-fetched, and
sometimes quite inconvenient. Occasionally there would be an article
that he could not rhyme until he had spent years of thought over it, and
when he did it would disturb the comfort of the family greatly. There
was the spider. He puzzled over that exceedingly, and when he rhymed
it at last, Mother Flower or one of the little girls had always to take the
spider beside her, when she sat down, which was of course quite
troublesome. The kettle he rhymed first with nettle, and hung a bunch
of nettle over it, till all the children got dreadfully stung. Then he tried
settle, and hung the kettle over the settle. But that was no place for it;
they had to go without their tea, and everybody who sat on the settle
bumped his head against the kettle. At last it occurred to Father Flower
that if he should make a slight change in the language the kettle could
rhyme with the skillet, and sit beside it on the stove, as it ought, leaving
harmony out of the question, to do. Accordingly all the children were
instructed to call the skillet a skettle, and the kettle stood by its side on
the stove ever afterward.
[Illustration: The Settle]
The house was a very pretty one, although it was quite rude and very
simple. It was built of logs and had a thatched roof, which projected far
out over the walls. But it was all overrun with the loveliest flowering
vines imaginable, and, inside, nothing could have been more
exquisitely neat and homelike; although there was only one room and a
little garret over it. All around the house were the flower-beds and the
vine-trellises and the blooming shrubs, and they were always in the
most beautiful order. Now, although all this was very pretty to see, and
seemingly very simple to bring to pass, yet there was a vast deal of
labor in it for some one; for flowers do not look so trim and thriving
without tending, and houses do not look so spotlessly clean without
constant care. All the Flower family worked hard; even the littlest
children had their daily tasks set them. The oldest girl, especially, little

Flax Flower, was kept busy from morning till night taking care of her
younger brothers and sisters, and weeding flowers. But for all that she
was a very happy little girl, as indeed were the whole family, as they
did not mind working, and loved each other dearly.
Father Flower, to be sure, felt a little sad sometimes; for, although his
lot in life was a pleasant one, it was not exactly what he would have
chosen. Once in a while he had a great longing for something different.
He confided a great many of his feelings to Flax Flower; she was more
like him than any of the other children, and could