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Wordsworth's Favorite Flower
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I was getting irascible, too long pent up by gray skies and damp winds. It was Sunday in April and the weather brightened somewhat. I called to Thomas, my English Springer, to take a ride with me through the roads that were now being awakened at least a month past the vernal equinox. He pranced to the occasion and off we went, out for a bit of calm and nurture from the natural world. Little did we suspect that warm breezes and a little sunshine bring out counter forces. Before we knew it, we were dogged on every side by two-wheeled whiners and screechers, helmets bobbing up and down and noisy exhausts breaking the decibel level of the human ear. On this lovely day, I had innocently driven into the mechanized maneuvers of a South Jersey motorcycle rally. I immediately turned around and fought my way back against the onrushing stream of whizzing, anonymous humanity, and drove for the refuge of Lovers Lane--just missing a few "easy riders' on the way. Home at last, I put the car in the garage for a quieter day, let Thomas out, and was about to go inside when I saw a beautiful clump of luxuriant green leaves punctuated with bright yellow flowers. I paused, moved closer, and using a small hand lens that I carried with me, examined the plant more closely. I had never seen it on the property before. I took a blossom and a leaf and brought them into the house. No doubt about it, a member of the buttercup family, the petals and anthers giving me two good clues. And then the confirmation, with Peterson, Britton & Brown, and Gray assisting. I had found, to my surprise and joy, a whole clump of lesser celandines. I put the specimen in a vial of water and gazed at the diminutive beauty of its glossy yellow petals and heart-shaped leaves through my magnifying lens, stunning and unnoticed by all but me. It was a just consolation for all the racket of the world.
Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies,
Let them live upon their praises;
Long as there's a sun that sets,
Primroses will have their glory;
Long as there are violets,
There will be a place in story;
There's a flower that shall be mine,
"Tis the little celandine.
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