ETHEL'S PINK PLANT;

AND WHAT HAPPENED TO IT.

E thel was always trying to write poetry, but it was so hard to find rhymes. When the cat killed the big pink begonia, she did manage to find a rhyme; and she thought the epitaph looked beautiful printed in violet ink on a piece of paper—

"Here my poor begonia lies. Drop a tear and wipe your eyes."

These were the only verses Ethel ever made. Perhaps we are beginning near the end of the story. You may want to know what the big pink begonia was, and how the cat killed it.

The beginning of this sad story was a red ribbon bow with a kitten behind it: the bow was so big and the cat was so little, that the ribbon looked much more important than the kitten that wore it. Ethel called the kitten Kafoozalum: Tom talked of the bow with the cat behind it; to which Ethel retorted: "The ribbon becomes her very much, Tom. Boys have no taste."

Early in the summer—about the time that the kitten was a weak little squeaker in a basket of straw with the cat of the house next door—Ethel was given a plant as a present. There had never before been a begonia in her mother's greenhouse; and Ethel knew very little about it, except that any rough treatment would kill it. The begonia grew very fast. It became a tall plant, with beautiful large reddish-veined leaves, and it was covered with a cloud of pink blossoms.

One day Ethel ran out of the conservatory in a hurry and left the door open; and Kafoozalum—the red bow with the kitten behind it—ran into the conservatory in a hurry, as she had never had the chance before. Tom, coming home from school, went, watering-pot in hand, to attend to his geranium-slips; he found the door open, and the kitten nearly on its head in frantic attempts to roll in the begonia pot.

A few weeks after, all the pink bloom was gone. The begonia, branch and leaf, died away. There was nothing left but a dry brown stump.

"It is dead!" cried Ethel. "A knock or a rub kills the young shoots. Mrs. Smith told me so. Kafoozalum rubbed and knocked it enough to kill it all."

"Tears! tears for the begonia!" laughed Tom. "Why, Ethel, I thought nothing but the death of Kafoozalum would reduce you to tears."

"Ah! Tom, but you don't know how fond I was of that plant. It was the only one I ever had. I feel almost as if it was really alive once, and dead now! I shall make it a grave and bury it."

Tom seemed very much amused at this idea—because the begonia was buried already in its own pot—and Ethel could not bear his making fun about it. So she ran away to her mother's room, with tears in her eyes.

"Mother, how do you spell 'begonia'?"

"Why, dear? who are you writing to?"

"My poor begonia is quite dead," sobbed Ethel, with a gulp of grief. "I want to write its epitaph."

"You mustn't cry about it now, Ethel dear. It could not feel. I shall get you another next summer."

But the only consolation Ethel could get was the writing of the epitaph. She worked at this for half an hour, and smeared herself very much with violet ink.

"Here is laid my pink begonia," was her first attempt.

Tom came into the room to learn his lessons at the other side of the table.

"Tom," she said, "please don't say your verbs out loud. I can't write poetry when you do. Tell me a rhyme for begonia. 'Here is laid my pink begonia.'"

"'Toss it over the wall, or let it alone-will-you?' That is the only rhyme in the English language," said Tom.

"You are very unkind," said Ethel, leaning her cheek on an inky hand, and rubbing her hair till it was a wild black mane. Then she tried what would happen if she began in quite a different way. At last she read out in sad tones:—

"Here my poor begonia lies, Drop a tear and wipe your eyes."

To which Tom only answered in a jaunty tone, throwing his penknife out of his pocket.

"Here's my knife to bury your roots, Lock the greenhouse, and wipe your boots."

Ethel's mouth gave a little twitch; but she would not laugh when Tom made fun of her poetry.

She went into the greenhouse, carrying a piece of black stuff and a pair of scissors, the penknife, and her verses printed in violet.

Then she dug a hole in the earthen floor, under the greenhouse shelf, in a warm corner near the pipes. Next she dug her begonia root out of the pot, popped it into the hole, and covered it up, and left a bit of stick standing upright, holding in a notch the wonderful epitaph.

Tom found her there, drying and smearing her face with an earthy corner of her pinafore. Tom had Kafoozalum peeping out from under his jacket-front; but Ethel sobbed afresh at the sight of the red bow with the kitten behind it.

"Come and take care of my geraniums with me, Ethel," said Tom.

"Oh! boo-hoo-no-no! You are very unkind."

"Why, what have I done? I didn't roll on my head in the begonia pot, did I, pussy?"

"Oh! boo-hoo—go 'way!"

So Tom went away. But the next time Ethel went into the greenhouse with a bright face, she could not help laughing at Tom's addition to her verses. She read:—

"Here my poor begonia lies, Drop a tear and wipe your eyes— The door was open—if you had locked it, The bow with the kitten couldn't have knocked it."

The winter passed; and Ethel's birthday came in the spring.

"Here is a silver pencil for you to write poetry with," said Tom, mischievously. Poetry or not the silver pencil was worth having, and Ethel felt that teasing Tom was fond of her. Ah! what could she do without Tom, or without the teasing either? "Come into the greenhouse," he said; "there's a begonia for you."

"Is there? I thought I had all my presents."

She went racing to the greenhouse, and came back with a disappointed face. "Why do you cheat me, Tom? This is not the first of April."

"Come and see." He led her into the greenhouse to the pink begonia's grave.

They both stooped down to the corner of the earthen floor near the hot pipes.

There was a dark red folded leaf growing above the earth.

"Oh, Tom! it is my own dear old plant."

"Yes—it is growing up again for another summer," he said. "I found it a week ago; but I kept it for a birthday surprise."

"Tom," said Ethel, seizing his arm in her delight, "put my poetry in your pocket, and let us go and ask mother if we should put it in a pot."

"What? put the poetry in a pot? Whatever for?"

"Oh! no, I didn't mean that at all—I mean——"

"Never mind—here go the verses, though they've served their turn."

So the pink plant went into a pot again, and grew more beautiful than ever; and the only poetry Ethel ever made went into Tom's pocket.