I

THEN THEY WENT DOWN INTO THE STRAWBERRY PATCH

JUNE, the month of roses, and strawberries. The beautiful month when spring is just turning to summer, and summer is giving us her first rare gifts.

In Davy's garden the corn was up, and had grown more in two weeks than the corn planted in the house had grown in four. It was the long sunny days that did this, and the showers that seemed to come almost too often, but perhaps the gardens didn't think so, for they grew, and the weeds grew, too, and kept Prue and Davy busy pulling and hoeing and cultivating.

Davy's radishes were big enough to eat just a month from the day they were planted—think of it!—when those planted in the house had taken ever and ever so long. Prue's pansies and sweet-pease, and her other three "sweets" were all up, too, and so green and flourishing.

But perhaps the thing that made them both happiest, at this season, was the Chief Gardener's strawberry-patch. Either that or big Prue's roses—they were not sure which.

"When I grow up, I am going to have acres and acres of strawberries," said Davy.

"And miles and miles of roses," said Prue.

"And herds and herds of little Jersey cows that only give the richest cream," said the Chief Gardener.

"And we'll put wreaths of roses about the cows' necks," said big Prue, "and drive them home at evening, and milk the rich creamy milk and put it on the fresh strawberry shortcake, just out of the oven—"

"And eat and eat forever," interrupted Davy.

"And be happy ever after," finished little Prue.

After that nobody said anything for quite a long time—thinking how fine all that would be, when it came.

Then they went down into the strawberry-patch where the big red berries were ripening on the broad, green leaves. And little Prue and her mamma went into the house and came out with two bowls—one quite large bowl—white, with blue vines and flowers on it, and one quite small bowl—white, with blue kittens on it, chasing one another around and around on the outside.

And the Chief Gardener and big Prue picked the ripe red berries and put them in the big bowl. And Davy and little Prue picked the ripe red berries and put them into the little bowl. And sometimes the Chief Gardener would eat a berry—a real, real ripe one—just to see if they were good, he said.

And sometimes big Prue would eat a berry—a real, real little one—just to see if little berries would do for a shortcake, she said.

And sometimes little Prue would eat a berry, and sometimes Davy would eat a berry—big, big berries—just because they looked so good, and tasted so good, that a little boy and a little girl could not help eating them, even if it took some of the berries out of the shortcake they were going to have for tea.

But they didn't eat all of the berries they picked. Oh, no. They put some of the berries into the little white bowl with the blue kittens chasing one another around and around on the outside. And the Chief Gardener and big Prue put most of their berries into the big bowl with the blue flowers and vines on it. And by and by both of the bowls were full—full clear to the top and heaping—so that no more berries, not even the very little ones, would lay on.

And then big Prue took the big bowl, and little Prue the little bowl, and they went up the little garden step into the house, carrying the bowls very carefully, so as not to spill any of the red berries that were heaped up so high that no more, not even very little ones, would lay on. And the Chief Gardener and Davy followed along behind, talking of the fine June evening, and saying how long the days were now and how far to the north the sun was setting. Then they looked around at the garden, and wondered if they would have green corn by the middle of July, and when they looked under the bean vines they found that some pods were quite large, and the Chief Gardener said that by Sunday they could have beans, and pease, with lettuce and several other green things—a regular garden dinner.

And then little Prue came out and called them to come—right off. And they saw that she was dressed in a fresh white dress, and that her hair was tied with a bright blue ribbon, and her face was as rosy as a strawberry.

"We have got the deliciousest shortcake that ever was!" she called, as they came closer, "and I helped, and rolled the dough and picked over some of the berries!"

"You didn't put all the berries in," said the Chief Gardener.

"Oh, I did—I did, Papa—all but two."

"And I will have those," said the Chief Gardener, and he lifted the little girl in his arms and gave her a big, big kiss, on each rosy cheek.

"I think June is the best month that ever was!" said Davy a little later, as he finished his second large piece.

"It always seems the queen month to me," said big Prue, "perhaps because it is the month of the rose—the queen of the flowers."

"Is the rose really the queen of the flowers?" asked little Prue.

"I have always heard so."

"How did she get to be queen? Did she just happen to be queen, or did the other flowers choose her?"

Little Prue's mamma looked thoughtfully out the garden window, where a great climbing rambler was a mass of red blossoms.

"Do you think any other flower could be queen over that?" she asked.

"Why, no, but—but don't folks have to choose queens, or something?"

"They do presidents," said Davy.

"I think you'll have to tell us about it," laughed the Chief Gardener. "It's your turn for a story, anyway."

So then big Prue took them all out on the wide veranda, where they could watch the sunset, that came very late now, and there she told them

II

HOW THE ROSE BECAME QUEEN

"Once upon a time there was a very great garden that lay between two ranges of blue, blue hills. And the sky above was blue, as blue as the hills, so that you could hardly tell where the sky ended and the hills began, and underneath was the great, beautiful garden which covered all the lands between.

"And in this rare garden there were all the choicest flowers and fruit that the world knew, and when the flowers were all in bloom, under that blue, blue sky—in all the wonderful colors of gold and crimson, and royal purple, and with all the banks of white daisies, and all the sweet orchards of apple-bloom, there was nothing like it in the whole world, and the sweet perfume went out so far that sailors on the ships coming in from sea, a hundred miles away, could smell the sweet odors, and would say, 'The wind blows from the garden of the Princess Beautiful.' For I must tell you that the garden was owned by a great Princess, and she was called Beautiful by all who knew of her, and every traveler to that distant country made his way to her white marble palace to seek permission to look upon the most wonderful garden in all the world.

"And many who came there were of high rank, like herself, and some of them tried to win her love, for the Princess was like her name and as beautiful as the rarest flower in all that marvelous garden. But to princes and even kings she would not listen, for her heart and pride were only in her flowers, and she wished to remain with them forever and be happy in their beauty. She was only sad when she saw that some of those who came went away with heavy hearts because she would not leave her palace for theirs.

"Now once there came to the palace of the Princess Beautiful a great queen. She had traveled far to see the splendid garden, and when she came, the Princess led her with all her court among the flowers. And all that sunlit day, under the blue, blue sky, the great queen and her court lingered in the garden—up and down the paths of white shells, where hyacinths and lilies and daffodils and azaleas grew on every side—and rested in the shade of the blossoming orchard trees. And when it was evening, and they had gone, and the flowers were left alone, they whispered and murmured together, for never before had they seen a queen and her court.

"And by and by as the days passed, the flowers decided that they, too, must have a queen—some rare flower, fine and stately, whom they would honor, even as they had seen their beautiful Princess honor her royal guest. And night after night they talked of these things, but never could decide which of their number should be chosen for the high place.

"And then one day a great sadness came upon the fair garden between the hills. A young traveler from an unknown country had come to the white palace, and one sunny afternoon the Princess Beautiful had led him among the beds of primroses and lilies and daffodils. And when the sun was going down and she turned and looked into his face, and saw how fair he was, and how the sun made his hair like gold, how it shimmered on his beautiful garments of velvet and fine lace, she felt for the first time a great love arise within her heart. Then, all at once, she forgot her garden, her palace and her pride—forgot everything in all the world except the fair youth who stood there with her in the sunset—and she told him her great new love.

"And as she spoke, softly and tenderly, the words she had never spoken to any one before, the breeze died, and the sun slipped down behind the far-off hills. And then, as the light faded, it seemed to the Princess Beautiful that the fair youth before her was fading, too. His face grew dim and misty—his hair became a blur of gold—his rare garments melted back into the beds of bloom. And behold, instead of the fair youth there stood before her in the twilight only a wonderful golden lily with a crimson heart.

"Then the Princess Beautiful knew that because she had cared only for her garden, and had sent from her those who had offered a great love like her own, that this wonderful lily had come to her as a youth with a face of radiant beauty, and with hair of gold, to awaken a human love in her heart. And each day she mourned there by the splendid lily, and called upon it to return to her as the fair youth she had loved; and at last when its flowers faded and the stem drooped, the white palace of the Princess Beautiful was empty, for the Princess lay dead beside the withered lily in the rare garden between the hills.

"And there they made her grave, and above it they built a trellis where a white climbing rose might grow. But when the rose bloomed, instead of being white, it was a wonderful crimson, such as no one had ever seen before. And when the other flowers saw those beautiful crimson blossoms, they no longer mourned, for they said, 'This is our Princess Beautiful who has returned to be our queen.'

"And so it was the red rose became the queen of flowers, and a symbol of great human love. The poet Burns sings,

and it was always in June that the great crimson rose bloomed on the grave in the garden of the Princess Beautiful."

"And did the lily ever bloom again?" asked little Prue.

"I'm sure it must have done so. We always speak of roses and lilies as belonging together, and there is a great golden lily called the Superbus, which I think might have been the beautiful youth that came to the white palace."

"Does the story mean that we shouldn't care too much for our gardens?" asked Davy. "More than for folks, I mean?"

"Do you know, Davy," said the Chief Gardener, "I was just wondering about that, too."

III

THE SUN IS THE GREATEST OF ALL CHEMISTS

It was about a week later, that one afternoon little Prue and Davy and the Chief Gardener were helping big Prue with her roses, and admiring all the different kinds. Little Prue had been thinking a good deal about roses since the story of the Princess Beautiful, and wondering just which of the climbing red ones had grown about her grave. Then she began to wonder about all the kinds, and how they came. She spoke about this now, as her mamma pointed out one which she said was a new rose—just offered for sale that year.

"Where did it come from?" asked the little girl, "where do new roses come from?"

"From seed," answered the Chief Gardener, "like the new peaches and apples I told you of. Roses belong to the same family, you know, and they are grafted much in the same way. Then the seeds are planted, and from these, fine new kinds are likely to come. Rose-growers are always trying hard to make new kinds by mixing the pollen. The pollen, you remember, is the yellow powder on the little tips of the stamens. These tips, as I believe I told you, are called anthers, and the slender part of the stamen is the filament. It is the pollen falling from the anthers upon the single green stem or pistil in the center of the flower that produces the seed. The pistil is divided in parts, too. The little top piece is called the stigma, and the slender green stem is called the style. The pollen falls on the stigma and is drawn down through the style to give life to the seed-pod below."

THE ROSE STAMENS AND PISTIL WHICH PRODUCE THE SEED