  "Now I will show you why I call my garden Story Blossom Garden," began Ozana as she advanced toward a rose tree laden with lovely blooms. "You see, these are not ordinary flowers. They are fairy flowers that I created with my fairy arts. And the soil in which they grow is magic soil. Take this rose, for instance." Here Ozana cupped a large red rose in her hands. "Look into its petals, Dorothy, and tell me what you see." "Why, the petals form a lovely girl's face!" Dorothy exclaimed in delight. "And so it is with all the blossoms in my garden," said Ozana. "If you look closely into them, you will see a human face. Now, Dorothy, put your ear close to the rose and listen." Dorothy did as she was bid and quite clearly she heard a small but melodious voice say pleadingly, "Pick me, pick me, little girl, and I will tell you the sweetest story ever told—a love story." Dorothy looked at the rose in awe. "What does it mean?" she asked Ozana. "Simply that all the flowers in my garden are Story Blossom Flowers. Pick a blossom and hold it to your ear, and it will tell you its story. When the story is done, the blossom will fade and wither." "Oh, but I shouldn't like any of the beautiful flowers to die," protested Dorothy, "even to hear their lovely stories." "They do not die," replied Ozana. "As I said, these are no ordinary flowers. They do not grow from seeds or bulbs. Instead, as soon as a blossom has told its story it fades and withers. Then one of my gardeners plants it, and in a few days it blooms afresh with a new story to tell. The flowers are all eager to be picked so that they may tell their stories. Just as ordinary flowers give off their perfumes freely and graciously, so my flowers love to breathe forth the fragrance of their stories. A poet once said that perfumes are the souls of flowers. I have succeeded in distilling those perfumes into words." "Can't the flowers tell their stories while they are still growing?" asked Dorothy. "No," replied Ozana. "Only when they are separated from their plants can they tell their stories." "Do all the roses tell the same love story?" Dorothy asked. "No indeed," said Ozana. "While it is true that all the roses tell love stories—for the rose is the flower of love—all roses do not tell the same love story. Since no two rose blossoms are identical, no two blossoms tell the same story. It was my purpose in creating the garden to supply myself with a never-ending source of amusement as an escape from the boredom of living alone on this desolate mountain top. I was reminded of the Princess in the Arabian Nights tales. You will recall that she told her stories for a thousand-and-one nights. My story blossoms," Ozana concluded with a smile, "can tell many, many more than a thousand-and-one stories. There are many thousands of blossoms in my garden, and each blossom has a different story." "You are certainly to be congratulated on your marvelous garden," said the Wizard. "It is a miraculous feat of magic," he added admiringly. "Thank you," replied Ozana graciously. "And now I will leave you, as I must form our plans for tomorrow. I must ask you to excuse me from the evening meal. Dolly and Poppet will serve you, and when you are ready they will show you to your sleeping rooms. Good-bye, for the present, my friends." Dorothy and the Wizard bid their lovely hostess good-bye and then turned to the wonderful garden of Story Blossoms. Putting Felina on the ground to romp beside her, Dorothy dropped to her knees before a cluster of pansies. As she bent her ear over one of the little flower faces, it murmured, "Pick me, little girl, pick me! I'll tell you an old-fashioned story of once-upon-a-time about a wicked witch and a beautiful princess." The Wizard found himself admiring the flaming beauty of a stately tiger-lily. Placing his ear close to the blossom, he listened and heard the flower say in a throaty voice, "Pick me, O Man, and hear a thrilling story of splendid silken beasts in their sultry jungle lairs." Now Dorothy was listening to a purple thistle that spoke with a rich Scotch burr, "Pick me, little girrrl, an' ye'll make naw mistake, for I'll tell ye a tale of a Highland lassie for Auld Lang Syne." Noticing a tawny blossom with gay purple spots, Dorothy placed her ear close to it. This was a harlequin flower and it said, "Pick me, child, and I'll tell you a wonder tale about Merryland and its Valley of Clowns, where dwell the happy, fun-loving clowns who delight in making children laugh." Dorothy remembered reading in a story book about Merryland and the Valley of Clowns. Next was a Black-Eyed-Susan that murmured to Dorothy, "Pick me, and I will tell you the story of three things that men love best—black eyes and brown and blue. Men love them all, but oh, black eyes—men love and die for you!" Dorothy smiled and moved on to a daisy which whispered to her in halting, doubtful tones, "Does he really love her? I shouldn't tell, but I know, I know—and I will tell if only you'll pick me, little girl." "And I thought daisies didn't tell," Dorothy said to herself. She stopped before a rambling rose that spoke in a rapid, excited voice and wanted to relate a story of vagabond adventure in far-away places. Then a bright red tulip whispered about a tale of wind-mills and Holland canals and pretty Dutch girls. At last the little girl came to a sunflower so tall that she had to stand on tip-toe to hear its words. "Pick me," the sunflower urged, "and hear my story of sun-baked prairies and western farm homes and great winds that sweep across the plains." "I wonder," thought Dorothy, "if the sunflower would tell me a story about my old home in Kansas." "I wonder," thought Dorothy, "if the sunflower would tell me a story about my old home in Kansas. There used to be a great many sunflowers on Uncle Henry's farm back there." A tiny violet growing in a mossy bed caught the girl's eye, and as she knelt to hear its words, a shrill, unpleasant voice exclaimed, "Pick me! Pick me! Pick me immediately! I'll tell you a story that will burn your ears off! All about Dick Superguy—greatest detective in the world! He can't be killed—he's all-powerful!" Dorothy was sure the shy little violet hadn't uttered these words. While she looked about to see where the rude voice was coming from, one of the little wooden gardeners stepped up and said apologetically, "Beg your pardon, Miss, it's just a weed. They're always loud and noisy, and while we don't care much for their stories, we feel they have as much right to grow as any other plants. Even a magic fairy garden has its weeds." The Wizard had strolled over to the pond of placid blue water, and placing his ear close to a green pad on which nestled an exquisite water lily, he heard these words, "Pick me, O Man, and I'll tell you a tale of a magic white ship that sails the jeweled seas and of the strange creatures that dwell in the blue depths." Turning to a lotus blossom, the Wizard heard a sleepy voice murmur, "Pick me, pick me. I'll carry you afar to the secret islands of the never-ending nights, where the winds are music in the palm trees and the hours are woven of delights." Now that they had listened to the pleading voices of so many of the blossoms, Dorothy and the Wizard decided to pick some of them and hear their stories. Dorothy's first selection was a Jack-in-the-Pulpit, which proved to be an unfortunate choice as the story the blossom told was preachy and sermon-like. She decided the blossom was a trifle green. Next she tried a daffodil. The story this blossom whispered to her in silver tones was about a lovely Spring Maiden who went dancing around the earth, and at her approach all ugliness and coldness and bitterness vanished. In the Spring Maiden's wake appeared a trail of anemones and violets and daffodils and tulips, and gentle winds that caused new hopes to arise in the hearts of the winter-weary people. The Wizard selected a pink carnation. This spicily-scented blossom told him an exciting story of intrigue and adventure in high places. It was a romantic, dashing story, full of cleverness and surprises. Then the Wizard plucked a cluster of purple lilacs. Each of the tiny blossoms growing on the stem joined in a chorus to sing him a story of home and love, of patience and virtue and all the common things of life in which the poorest may find riches and happiness. Almost before Dorothy and the Wizard realized it, the shadows of evening were lengthening over the garden, and Dolly and Poppet appeared to inform them the evening meal was awaiting them. Dorothy picked up the White Kitten which had fallen asleep in the shadow of a nearby hedge, and she and the Wizard followed the maid and the page back to the cheery comfort of Ozana's cottage. They chatted happily over the good food served them by Dolly and Poppet. Felina had her bowl of milk on the floor, near Dorothy's chair. Then, since they realized the next day was likely to be a busy and exciting one, they followed Dolly and Poppet to the rooms Ozana had prepared for them and said good-night at their doors. The rooms were delightfully furnished with deep, soft beds and everything to make them comfortable for the night. As Dorothy pulled the covers over her, and Felina snuggled into a small, furry ball at the girl's feet, Dolly reappeared with a poppy blossom in her hand. "Here, Princess Dorothy," the thoughtful little maid said, "Listen to the story of the poppy blossom and you'll be sure to sleep well." So Dorothy listened to the soft, slumbrous voice of the poppy and was asleep almost before the tale was finished. What kind of a story did the sweet poppy tell? Why, a bedtime story, of course. |
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