Melody of Flowers by E. S. Rodhe

 
Fairy Face
 
The melodies of the flowers — the music of fairyland — 
cannot be heard by mortal ears. Yet throughout the year 
this lovely music is being played. When the snowdrops 
appear, do we not feel we are listening to fairy bells, the 
' horns of elf land faintly blowing,' telling us of the coming 
spring, when the golden trumpets of the daffodils will 
take up the refrain ? I think to most of us the scents of 
the different seasons are as characteristic as their colours. 
The purest scents are those of spring, for no summer 
scents have the fresh ethereal purity of primroses, cow- 
slips or white violets. These scents are suggestive of 
worlds fairer even than our own. Unlike many of the 
richer perfumes we can never have enough of these 
scents, and their elusive charm haunts us throughout the 
year. The scent of apple blossom has, I think, this 
quality more than any other of the early flowers. Were 
I condemned to live in the tropics, I should be heart-sick 
every May for the scent of apple blossom. The same 
quality of purity and wholesomeness is characteristic of 
the less ethereal scents of bean-flowers, of clover and 
new mown hay, and beyond all of heather under a hot sun. 
The scents of the summer flowers are rich and joyous 
and sweetest of all are the scents of the * old ' roses. The 
scent of the cabbage rose is more than a scent. It is the 
beauty of life itself, of its sorrows as well as its joys. And 
what of the melodies of wondrous beauty wafted from 
the snowy trumpets of the Madonna lilies — songs of 
praise unknown to mortal ears ? The summer flowers 
laugh and sing and the earth is filled with gladness. No 
two scents are alike, and yet how perfectly they blend 
in the garden. ' There is neither speech nor language but 
their voices are heard among them.'