Fragrance and Childhood

"The child is bewitched, I truly believe! There she lies, on the sofa, perfectly good, perfectly happy; but this world is nothing to her. She hovers continually on the borders of fairyland. The other day I found her trying to compound a magical paste from honey and heliotrope blossoms. It seems this paste must be contained in a 'curiously wrought silver box,' so she had taken Great grandfather Vivian's queer old snuff-box from the cabinet, and was preparing to fill it with her ingenious compound. 'It does n't smell right, Queen,'she said. 'It should fill the house with "the fragrance of a thousand flowers," and it does n't at all.'"
The Princess laughed merrily. "That does," she said, holding a sprig of white jasmine to her grandmother's nose. And then she added, "Nannie is not on the sofa now."
"No; I sent her up to Cousin Betty Vivian's with a message. I will say she is the most obliging child I ever saw; always ready to go of an errand; but then she loves to be out of doors. I suppose there are fairies under every bush."
"If Nannie happens to take an interest in the bush, no doubt there are. Really, Grandmother, I think we need not worry. Nan is the healthiest, happiest, sweetest natured child in the world; her small mind is brimful of lovely, loving fancies; and if she likes to individualize things which the rest of the world takes en masse, or ignores entirely, I see no harm in it. I believe in fairy tales myself, and I believe in Nannie. Besides, they are not all she reads, by any means. She is very forward in her studies for a child of her age, only eleven, you know; and her taste in literature is already nice and discriminating."
Nannie's Happy Childhood
 By Caroline Leslie Field
 
We speak of the beauties of Spring—we delight in the fragrance of the early blossom, and the balm of the morning air; but there is a Spring of more surpassing beauty, whose fragrance comes from a flower, that shall bloom forever, and in whose atmosphere there is a balm, that heals the soul; it is the Spring of the youthful mind—the opening of the intellectual principle—the unfolding of the moral nature!  
 The New-England Magazine, Volume 1

SIR RABINDRANATH TAGORE
CCLXXXIII
THE BEGINNING
'Where have I come from, where did you pick me up ?' 
the baby asked its mother.
She answered half' crying, half laughing, and 
clasping the baby to her breast,—
'You were hidden in my heart as its desire, my darling.
You were in the dolls of my childhood's games; 
and when with clay I made the image of 
my god every morning, I made and unmade 
you then.
You were enshrined with our household deity,
in his worship I worshipped you. 
In all my hopes and my loves, in my life, in the
life of my mother you have lived. 
In the lap of the deathless Spirit who rules our
home you have been nursed for ages. 
When in girlhood my heart was opening its petals,
you hovered as a fragrance about it. 
Your tender softness bloomed in my youthful
limbs, like a glow in the sky before the sunrise. 
Heaven's first darling, twin-born with the
morning light, you have floated down the
stream of the world's life, and at last you
have stranded on my heart. 
As I gaze on your face, mystery overwhelms me;
you who belong to all have become mine. 
For fear of losing you I hold you tight to my
breast. What magic has snared the world's
treasure in these slender arms of mine?'

WHEN?
"Tell me, when will the may flower come?
When will the wild brooks begin to run? 
When will they frolic and cease to be dumb?"
When they feel the warm touch of the sun.
"When will the grasses show their shoots? 
When will the violets open
again?" 
 As soon as they feel within their roots
The pulse of the warm spring rain.
When will the crocus push
through the mold? 
When will the robins begin to build? 
When will the cinnamon rose unfold
Till half of its fragrance is spilled?
"When will the snow and the crystal rime 
Vanish, and leave the brown earth bare?"
Patience, dear child, in the Lord's own time
The Spring blossoms everywhere.
Stories of Childhood and Nature
By Elizabeth Virginia Brown
 
When the marquis had finished his thin, melancholy airs, it was my turn to perform, and that I liked much better. I saw that he loved to hear the old Breton songs sung in my sweet, piping little voice, and it was especially pleasant, our music over, to be rewarded by being given chocolate pastils from a little enamel box that stood on the writing-desk. While I softly crunched the pastils M. de Ploeuc told me about the countries where the plant from which the chocolate came grew. It was not at all common in Brittany at that time, and the pastils much less sweet than our modern bon bons. M. de Ploeuc also carried for his own delectation small violet and peppermint lozenges in a little gold box that he drew from his waistcoat-pocket, and these gave the pleasantest fragrance to his kiss. I often sat on with him in the study, looking at the pictures in the books he gave me while he read or wrote. He wore on the third finger of his right hand an odd black ring that had a tiny magnifying-glass fixed upon it, and while he read his hand moved gently across the page.
A Childhood in Brittany Eighty Years Ago
 By Anne Douglas Sedgwick