Wise little book.

"They are the flowers I love best," she was saying. "I call them moon-flowers, and their perfume is so strange and uncanny that many a weary soul, when smelling them, has found sweet sleep."

"May I smell them, dear Mother Moon?" asked Pansy in a voice all trembling with emotion.

"You are not a weary soul, little Pansy," answered the planet. "You are a fresh breath from the earth's blessed spring-time, so do not bury your little nose in those dream-flowers, Pansy, sweet Pansy, but move on to plants more gay, and more in keeping with your youth."