Explore "The Garden of Resurrection" by E. Temple Thurston on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The first snowdrop blossomed in my window-boxes this morning. Its small, white face looked so timid as it stared at me out of the fog. I felt almost sorry for its loneliness, only that I admired it so much for its bravery. It must need some courage to be the first flower of the year -- a pioneer into unknown kingdoms. I know so many people who would sooner lie abed than be the first to get up on such a morning as this.
I found it for myself, but knew well I was not the first to discover it. Moxon was waiting about in the room when I came down to breakfast, doing nothing in that feverishly-occupied way which betokens subterfuge of some kind or another. I could see quite plainly what he was up to and, in such cases as these, I hate to disappoint people. He wanted me to draw his attention to the snowdrop, since, for his dignity's sake, he could not be supposed to have seen it himself. Now, to have taken no notice of it would have been cruel, yet I was sorely tempted to it. I wanted to observe to what straits of ingenuity he would be put before dire necessity compelled him to leave the room.