Tag Archive | Flower Stories

A story told in flowers


Here’s a love story that first appeared in the 1928 edition of Modern Priscilla Magazine. Each colored word corresponds to a flower . Enjoy the story !

Yellow was especially becoming to little Black-eyed Susan and so when Sweet William, that dashing Rambler invited her to a party at Four o’clock she gratefully accepted this proof of the Lad’s love and put on her yellow dress and yellow Lady’s slippers in honor of the occasion. First, she carefully arranged her Ladies tresses and then tiptoed softely out of the house so as not to Wake robin, her little brother. The mirror in the hall showed her that she was a Spring beauty, and that if her name has only been Marguerite she would have been a real English daisy.
Her escort’s London pride leaped high as he saw her, though, not to be outdone, he had with careful Thrift polished his own Bachelor’s buttons until they shone like a Goldenrod.
“Not one of the Fair maids of France can equal your appearance!” he exclaimed proudly. “England forever!” A tinge of Maiden pink showed on her face as he spoke with such Honesty, for behind it she read aright his Bleeding heart. But she only answered him demurely, “I hope I shall not be a Wallflower.” “Far from it,” he answered warmly. “I would scale Jacob’s ladder itself for a dance from you.” By that time they were at the party. “Johnny jump up exclaimed her escort to a boy at the door, ” and give her your seat!”

“Never,” answered the young Cockscomb disagreeably, and when pressed, he gave her lover such a blow that he saw his Love-in-a-mist. But when he saw the Bishop’s hat approaching he ran away. “Oh, Billy, are you hurt?” she sobbed wildly. He opened his Eyebright with love and answered feebly, “Will you be mine?” “Ask Poppy,” she answered shyly; while a Blush rose to her cheek. His Tulips answered in the old, old way and all we can do is wish them Speedwell.

Flower Stories – The Forget-me-not


THE STORY OF THE FORGET-ME-NOT

(Excerpted from “Phyllis Field Friends Flower Stories” by Lenore E. Mulets)forgetmenot1.jpg

One morning, in the golden days of the early world, an angel sat just outside the gates of Paradise, and wept. “Why do you weep?” gently asked one who passed that way. “Surely the world is lovely, and Paradise is so near!” “Alas!” said the angel, “I must wait long before I may enter Paradise.”

“Why,” said the other, “it seems but a step to the gates. Why must you wait?”

“Look,” said the angel, pointing earthward. The other looked and saw a dainty blue-eyed maiden stooped over the grass by a brookside. “Do you see those tiny blue flowers which she is planting?” whispered the angel. “They are as dainty as she is herself. They are blue as her own eyes. They have hearts of gold as true as her own true heart.”“Why, then, do you weep?” asked the other.“Ah,” said the angel, “I love the gentle maiden, and with her I would have entered Paradise.

But, lo, when we came to the very gates we were not allowed to enter.”

“Tell me more,” said the other.“A task was given to this earth maiden,” said the angel. “In every corner of the world must she plant this tiny blue flower. I may not enter the gates of Paradise without her. Thus it is that I sit outside and weep.”“Nay, nay,” said the other. “weep not. There is a better way than that.”Then he whispered in the angel’s ear.

And the angel flew to earth where the maiden stooped over her dainty blue flowers. He came to assist her in her task. Hand in hand the angel and the beautiful maiden wandered over the land. In every corner of the earth they planted the blue forget-me-nots. Then one day, when the task was done, they sat together beside the stream and wove wreaths of forget-me-nots.

And with garlands of their own flowers about them, the angel gathered the beautiful maiden in his arms and carried her with him to the gates of Paradise. The gates swung wide at their coming, and ever after the angel and the maiden whom he loved wandered mid fields of happiness in the land of Paradise.

Order forget-me-nots and other flowers at Eden Florist