Peter's surprises were not over for that day. No, sir, they were not. He would have been quite satisfied not to have found another flower, for he felt that already the day was rich in the finds he had made. So it was with no thought of finding more that Peter at last left the hill where the Columbine grew and scampered along, lipperty-lipperty-lip, until he reached the edge of the Green Forest.

He had started out on the Green Meadows on his way to the dear Old Briar-patch when he happened to look over his shoulder back at the Green Forest. He cut a long jump short right in the very middle, and then turned and sat up to stare with unbelieving eyes at a point on the edge of the Green Forest some little distance below where he had left it.

"It can't be! It simply can't be!" Without knowing it Peter spoke aloud.

"What can't be?" demanded a Merry Little Breeze.

"Snow!" replied Peter.

"Of course it can't be!" chuckled the Merry Little Breeze. "What put such an idea into your head? It can't be, but by the look on your face I should say that you think that it is."

"Well, if that isn't snow over on one of those trees on the edge of the Green Forest, what is it?" demanded Peter.

The Merry Little Breeze laughed right out." Go over and see, Peter. I'll race you over there," cried the Merry Little Breeze.

Away went Peter as fast as he could go, lipperty-lipperty-lip. And away danced the Merry Little Breeze just ahead of him. Peter went as fast as he could, but the Merry Little Breeze went faster. When they reached the tree which had seemed to be covered with snow, Peter had very little breath left, and what he saw when he looked up took away that little.

"Flowers!" he whispered under his breath. "Flowers!"

It was true. It was a small, irregular-shaped tree with broad, flat branches, and these were white with what looked like large, four-petaled flowers. How Peter did wish that he could climb like Happy Jack Squirrel, that he might get close to those flowers and see just what they looked like. Had he been able to do this, he would have found that many of them were not as white as they looked from a distance, but were tinted ever so lightly with pink. And he would have found that what he thought were petals, each with a little notch in its rounded end, were not true petals at all, but that they were the scales or coverings which had protected the real flowers in the bud. These real flowers were tiny, greenish-yellow and grew in a little cluster right at the center of the open petallike scales.

But not being able to climb like Happy Jack Squirrel, all Peter could do was to look up and admire the Flowering Dogwood, for this is the common name of the tree Peter had found. There is no mistaking it for any other. In the spring it makes the edge of the Green Forest beautiful with just such patches of white as had caught Peter's attention. In the fall the leaves become crimson and scarlet and gold around clusters of bright red berries. When other food is scarce in winter, certain of Peter's feathered friends are glad to get those berries.

Peter looked up at the Dogwood until his neck ached. Then he once more started for home. He did not go straight across the Green Meadows, but went around up on a little hillside where the ground was dry and somewhat sandy. As he hopped along he was still thinking of the beauty of the Dogwood. He wasn't even looking for more flowers, for it hadn't entered his funny little head that there might be any on that dry hillside. So his surprise was all the greater when happening to look down he found that he had almost stepped on a little yellow blossom that was smiling up at him.

It was so unexpected that Peter blinked rather foolishly. You see, it was a little friend with which he was well acquainted, but had forgotten all about. It was the Common Cinquefoil, which is often called Five-finger. The latter name is given it because each leaf is made up of five parts which spread from the end of a hairy little stem like the fingers of a hand. Each part or leaflet is cut around the edges so that it appears to have little green teeth. Had Peter stopped to think about it, those little leaves would have reminded him of the leaves of the Strawberry, though the leaves of the latter have only three parts. These leaves grew in little clusters from a stalk that crept along the ground like a vine.

But it was the little bright yellow blossom that interested Peter most. It was very like a tiny, single, yellow Rose. As a matter of fact it belonged to the Rose family. There were five petals, broad and rounded, each with a little notch in the outer edge. There were many little stamens, and in the very center were crowded together many little green pistils.

Peter remembered that the year before this hillside had been yellow with these blossoms, and he knew that it would be so again. What Peter didn't know was that later in the season, in the very beginning of summer, there would be a cousin of the Common Cinquefoil, which, instead of creeping along the ground, would boldly grow from a few inches to four feet high, with many branches and with flowers two to three times the size of these he was now looking at. This is the Shrubby Cinquefoil or Prairie Weed, and while it likes damp places best it is also found in dry, sandy places. It is easily recognized by its bushy growth and by the leaves, which are more truly like fingers, for the leaflets are long, narrow, and widely spread.

"At this rate I'll never get home," muttered Peter, as he turned from the little Cinquefoil and once more started on. It began to look as if Peter was right for he had made but a few hops when he fairly squealed aloud with delight. "Violets!" he cried. "Bird's-foot Violets! Oh, how I love them!"

With a couple of swift bounds Peter reached a little group of flowers that seemed to have taken their color from the sky, and from the Purple Hills at the hour just after jolly, round, bright Mr. Sun has gone to bed. The two upper petals, which bent back, were of this soft, rich purple, while the three lower petals were the blue of the sky at midday. Orange-colored stamens growing close together gave each flower a heart of gold.

Peter knew that these are the largest of the Violets, and because of the sandy soil in which they delight are sometimes called Sand Violets. "All the Violets have a strong family likeness, no matter what color they may be," thought Peter. "One could never mistake a Violet for any other flower. And one never can mistake this one for any other member of the family," he added, as he glanced down at the leaves.

He was quite right. The leaf is divided into from five to nearly a dozen long, narrow parts with the longer middle ones notched on the ends. Some of these parts or leaflets are grouped together in such a way that if spread out flat they remind one of the foot of a bird, and this is how the plant comes by its name. Unlike other Violets the Bird's-foot often blooms a second time in the fall. Occasionally one is pure white instead of purple and blue. Often the two upper petals, instead of being dark purple, are practically the same color as the lower petals. In fact this is the commonest form. In some parts of the country the Bird's-foot Violets with the two upper petals rich purple are called Velvet Johnnies or Velvet Johnny-jump-ups.

The finding of these Violets reminded Peter that he had quite forgotten to look for the one of all the family he knew best and loved the most, the Common Blue Violet or Meadow Violet. He knew that it must be in bloom, for it comes before its cousin, the Bird's-foot Violet. Peter sat up and looked across the Green Meadows towards the Smiling Pool. He knew just the place down there where the Meadow Violet would be at its best.

"How stupid of me," muttered Peter, "not to have thought of the Meadow Violets when I saw the White Violets down there early this morning. Well, I have just got to see them."

He looked up at the blue, blue sky to be sure that Redtail the Hawk was nowhere to be seen. He looked this way and that way over the Green Meadows to make sure that Reddy Fox was not prowling about. Then he started, lipperty-lipperty- lip, for the Smiling Pool. Past the sweet-scented little White Violets he hurried with merely a glance at them. Just a little way beyond, where the grass already had a good start, and where the ground was damp but not really wet, Peter found the little friends he had been sure were there. On long smooth stems they lifted their beautiful blue faces to the sky whose color they matched. Some were light blue, some were dark blue, and a few were even striped. Each had a heart of gold.

A Merry Little Breeze danced over them and they swayed gently on their long slender stems. Having in mind the leaves of the Violets he had just left, Peter eagerly looked at the leaves above which these beloved little friends raised their bright faces. These leaves were so different from those he had just seen that it didn't seem possible that they could belong to the same family. They were large, heart-shaped, broad at the base, pointed at the tip, and with very fine scallops along the edges. On the young leaves the lower parts curved upward. Each leaf stem had a groove its whole length on one side, while the stems of the flowers were smooth.

"Oh, you beautiful things!" cried Peter. "You beautiful, beautiful things! I just love you. I do indeed."

In this Peter differed not at all from the rest of the world, for who is there who can look at the Meadow Violet nestling amid the young grass of the meadow and not love it?



The violet blue! The violet blue!

It sets my heart at rest.

So fragile in the grass it lies,

It seems a flower of the skies,

And hope springs in my breast.

The violet blue! The violet blue!

It sets my heart at rest.