“Yes, I see. As the young leaves and flowers unfold. The plants must take full charge of this department, I think. I remember once turning over the leaves of a fat, dark-gray book, with gilt letters on its back. It lay on a minister’s window-seat, and it looked interesting, so I read a few minutes while the minister was out and not using it, and among other things that I read was this, and it stayed with me ever since: ‘A lily grows mysteriously. Shaped into beauty by secret and invisible fingers, the flower develops, we know not how. Every day the thing is done: it is God.’ You see, my dear,” addressing himself to a pure white lily that had only that morning unfolded its delicate petals to the sun, “you see a great many don’t understand how it is done. You need to tell how God has made you able to unfold.” “Yes, we will, we can,” they all cried. “The flowers will speak on Evolution,” wrote down Woodpecker. “There are three more words spoken by our friend Fish, still unexplained,—literature,—” “I know what literature means, Mr. Wind, it is books,” announced a bright butterfly who had just arrived on the scene. “Are you sure?” questioned the fish doubtfully. “Yes; of course I am. I went with a big pinch-bug one day into a great room full of books, and he said, when he saw the shelves and shelves full of them, ‘My! what a lot of literature!’” The committee looked convinced, but now came the question of books,—Where should they get them? How could they lecture on books, when they knew nothing about them? “We must just send word around to all the flowers and birds and trees and everything, to see who can lecture on books, and we must all keep our eyes and ears open,” said a buttercup bud. “We shall have to lay that on the table for the present,” said the wind. “But we haven’t any table,” chattered a squirrel. “A well brought-up squirrel should know better than to interrupt. We shall have to put this aside, then, until we can learn more about it. In the meantime, let us proceed with the next word on the list, poetry.” “I know,” said the brook. “A bit of paper lay upon my bank, miles and miles away from here, too high up for me to reach, but I could read it. It said, ‘For poetry is the blossom and the fragrance of all human knowledge.’ And I have said it over and over all the way here.” “Ah! the flowers shall give us poetry,” said the good old wind. Bachelor bowed his head and said, “We will try.” “Try, try, try,” chattered the brook. “Art is next, I believe,” said Bachelor. “Yes, art,” said a squirrel. “Art is making pictures,” said the moss. “Then the sunset must paint them, for there are no pictures made like those of the sunset,” said the wind.