I once found a wonderful old book, called "Good Words of 1873". It is a collected edition of a little magazine, published by a Victorian clergyman, and is full of homilies, poems, wonderful illustrations, essays and stories. These two "flower legends" were written for the magazine by a lady called Stephanie Wohl, who lived, it seems, in Budapest. I thought you might enjoy reading them. This one is a sweet little tale of flowers, dreaming.

"Tingling, jingling!" laughed the little Snowdrops, shaking their little white bells above the melting snow.
"Tingling, jingling! spring is coming! the west wind is coming! Tingling, jingling! The swallow is coming, and with it the butterflies and the bright sun-ray, this smile of blooming spring, the dew its fragrant tear. Tingling, jingling! here we are also, we, the herald of the youth with the garland of roses-the merry little Snowdrops!" And to the little Snowdrops' singing there appeared the little Violet, glancing timidly around her, yet afraid of the cold, naughty snow, which comes down every winter and sends the good little flowers down into their dark nursery, when they are yet wide awake. There came the May-flower with its pretty bells, the Myosotis opening its delicate blue chalice; this was followed by the lovely Rose, the brilliant Yellow Lily, and the fragrant Pink; soon after came the proud Tulip, the merry Bluebell, and the purple Peony. They came all, all those children of a warmer sun, even the Passion Flower at last, and Summer had arrived!

"How hast thou spent the winter?" asked the Rose, bending her lovely head to the stately form of the Yellow Lily.
"I dreamed! a brilliant, glorious dream! I was a hero, my steps were marked by death; my look brought destruction! At my bidding, mighty cities stood in flames; high towers fell to dust; great fortresses opened their iron gates, and I walked in upon a carpet of dead knights, broken armour, famished women and children. The device of my shield was death and victory.

"But amidst the glory of my fame I saw spectres rising out of their forgotten graves; hearts I had broken, happy lives I had destroyed, and through the sound of the trumpet which called me to new victories I heard a distant wail, a hollow curse upon the name I had made so famous. This curse came home to me; the garland of my conquests faded at my eyes, the cup of power proved a well of gall.
"Queen of flowers, lovely Rose, fame and glory, were they happiness to me?"

"I was a poetess !" quoth the fragrant Pink, "and my song inspired a whole nation! Ever-green leaves surround my statue in the Pantheon of my country, and my name lives, and will live when even the walls within which I have been born will be dust, and even the stone upon my grave will have disappeared. But, alas, the rays of glory are not warming, the garland of laurels is so heavy for a woman's delicate brow! Women are born to love. Heaven refused nothing to my spirit. But my heart never found the ideal of its dreams, I was born to walk my brilliant frozen path---alone.
"Queen of flowers, lovely Rose, I, the proud, the admired, have I ever been happy?"

"I was a court lady!" quoth the dashing Tulip, "and my whole life was but one mocking delusion. I had rank, riches, beauty, and talent. I possessed all that makes the happiness and pride of a husband, the brightness of a cheerful home; but all this was nothing to me. The priceless gifts of heaven were lavished upon an empty-hearted selfish crowd, and the husband I had loved, the sainted home of my children, were sacrificed for the sake of false friends and frivolous pleasures. But when my youth had faded, and with it the power of my worldly reign, I had no home to turn to. The love I once possessed was long forfeited, and I saw nothing around me but the spectres of my misspent life.
"Queen of flowers, lovely Rose, I have known the brilliant wretchedness of life; but its happiness, never."

"My brow bleeds under the martyr's crown of thorns !" quoth the Passion Flower; "and my breast has been pierced by a thousand daggers. I was a champion of truth and charity, and offered my life for the happiness of my brethren. But the reward for my bitter strife has been suffering and martyrdom. They hated, they persecuted me, until I fell down exhausted under my heavy cross, and died on a foreign soil, far from the country which had been my cradle, far from those I loved. But the truth for which I had suffered, it did not die. It rose out of the lonely grave in that foreign land, and entered the souls which had doubted. It conquered at last, and now those who had refused every comfort to the living, erect statues to the dead man's memory, and praise the name of him they had murdered.
"Queen of flowers, lovely Rose, has ever happiness crowned the life of the saviours of mankind?"

"They called me the 'Flower of Tiflis," said the Tuberose. "I was an odalisque, and my beauty outshone the radiance of the sun. All the fragrance of the East filled the air of my palace, the songs of Hafiz lulled me to sleep, and in the evening, when the lotus flower opens its rosy chalice to receive the last rays of the sinking sun, I lay on my purple couch in the shade of Persia's rose-trees, and listened to the melodious sighs of the nightingale. But yet, how sad is the story of my life! These lips, as full as cherries, sweet as the leaves of the opening rosebud, these lips were cursed, for they were doomed to kiss the man they hated, and to him they would have longed to give all the sweetness of Eden their kiss brought death.
"Queen of flowers, lovely Rose, what is youth without its crown of happy love? What is life without this blessing?"

"And thou," asked the Rose, bending her earnest face down to the little Violet's drooping chalice, "what hast thou dreamed?"

"I," replied the lovely little flower, in her soft melodious voice, "can tell you no such brilliant tales. I dreamed neither of fame nor of conquests, nor of romance. My life flowed on quietly in a low little cottage, with a husband I loved and beautiful children I brought up to be charitable and loving to each other. Far from the trouble and bustle of the world, I sought life's true meaning in the hearts of those I loved.
"I was happy, queen of flowers, lovely Rose, because contentment, innocence, and love are happiness; not earthly, but heavenly bliss."

The little' flower's trembling voice died away, a subdued stillness crept over her sisters' bending chalices, and night came and covered them with its mysterious veil.

Stephanie Wohl