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A family of nine sisters, none named the way the names could have fit. They started out with three flowers, and thought it wise to continue it. Our last name so plain, Daddy argued. Daisy, Fern and Violet sounds smart. Rose, Hazel, Jasmine, Poppy, Iris and Willow arrived nine months apart. Let me guess, people would say, Willow is tall and lean and flexible, a sway. Could not have been more wrong; she was as inflexible as the break of day. Jasmine must be exotic, erotic, a delight to the eyes, delicate and sweet. In reality she had ham hocks large enough she could cows and bulls defeat. Violet is probably dainty, sweet, a nature lover, who loves the woods, right? In truth she was an advocate for woman, tall and portly, screaming with might. Fern is a lover of verdant grasses with her feet solid as the earth I am sure. You would be totally off base, sir. She explodes with color, totally impure. Please let me guess that Daisy is a delight, light and lithe, like a fairy true. I hate to tell you, but she is dour, dank, damp and she would truly dislike you. Let me guess then that Rose is not thorny in any kind of way, pure and sweet. She is the only one who lives up to her name. She would prick you in defeat. The assumer is askance now. He has only two guesses left in his drawer. Hazel is shy and unassuming? Never cackles, non witchlike to the core? Sorry, I assure him. You have guessed her wrong. Ready for Poppy now? Poppy is dull, not vibrant in any kind of way, no redness to or fro? She is actually orange and pink, fairy like, she dazzles like a rainbow. You have one more chance, I tell the man who likes to label all. What is her name? He asks, for he has lost track in his giant fall. Iris is short, squat, nothing like her name? He guesses. Am I right? I told him the truth and he disappeared, completely out of sight. The last I saw him he was being chased around the garden phlox. By a giant wolf, hyena, lion, bear and very hungry fox. Moral of this story: You cannot judge people on their name Or put them into a box, for no two Primroses are the same, and you will be eaten by a fox.
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