Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1877-03-29
NO. 76.
A CLUSTER OF LILIES.


Only the sweet breath of lilies. But
though such an evanescent thing, coming
with sigh of spring air. it is laden with
memories so joyful. so tender. 50 sorrowful.
The young year is all over the fair land,
bursting with the full rich life that can no
longer sleep under the water stiffness.
Genial showers and soft air have been
playing over the fields, and they are green
and bright with velvety grass, and the
damp messy bitches are full of dainty,
fragile spring-fowers. Dark-hued VIC
lets hide themselves under their broad
round leaves; and pale primroses start out
from their circling ring of velvety leaves;
and open under the sunshine into great
yellow balls, for the children to gather;
smart cowslips and oxslips dart up brave
ly and send out their odors to make the
sweet air sweeter.
Behind them all grow the long green
angular shoots of keck, lifting its head
high, as if looking out for the summer
sun to call into life its starry white bios
heads of the ferns are unrollinR them
selves, and spreading out their delicate
feathery arms above the dainty flowers.
thousands of starry eyes. of golden and
silver pale-blue water-lilies gazing up
through the waving boughs above to their
sister stars in the dark violet sky. Chill
dren hang over and stretch chubby hands
to gather punches of the fragile things.
They play with them, and crown them
selves with Them but they fade. and the
children cast them away, and them run
home. All in the dewy grass the flowers
lie forgotten, and die; they leave no
breath of sweet perfume to make their
memory in the aftertime. They are not
like the lilies of the woods; these fill the
air with their delicious sweetness; one
knows they are there long before one finds
them, peering out like fairy bells. all
snowy white, from their taper-wrapping
leaves! Under the great trees fringing
the broad ridings in the forests, one comes
upon patches of the pointed dark leaves,
and the air, so sweet and fresh, is luscious
and rich-nay, half faint with the perfume
of the hidden flowers.
And with the perfume comes memory,
a memory only belonging to the delicate,
subtle, strangely sweet breath of lilies,
whether see them growing in the spring
time under great forest trees, or whether
they beautify the houses of men. and
breathe out their fragrance from costly
vases of rare porcelain or crystal.
This is the memory:
Shows were melting from the hillsides.
sun and flowers had come to bright little
Swiss village among the mountains. 1t
was safe and sunny, and laughed like m
echo back to the topping FLASHES of the
stream that came down full of melted
snow and smiled up at the great hoary
peaks glistening like silver in the sun
shine. Grim frowning winter had gone,
chilly in blasts and howling winds, and
the gray and purple mountains smiled
down on the laughing child at their feet.
The working day was over. From tho
white church on the mountain-side came
the chime OF the evening bell, calling to
prayer; the low sun came slanting across
the dark pine forest and the emerald green
hillside, down on the brown and white
cottages and the bright colored dresses
of the women. Fathers and mothers and
children loitered about in knots in the
warm air. chatting and playing. Far
away as yet, but steadily nearer and near
er, came the tinkle of the cattle bells and
the lowing of the cows, coming home for
| the night after the days pasture on the
| rich young grass Of the mountains. A
simple people they were in that village,
living from day to day on the produce Of
their farms. knowing little and caring less
about the doings OF the outside world,
thinking. indeed, of but little beyond their
daily wants and pleasures. Now and then
in summer, some tourists might drop out
of the usual route, would make their way
into the village, stay day or two at the
little inn. La Belle Marie, would climb
the mountains, and 60 away again.
Just in the centre of the village stood
this inn, with its brightly painted sign
swinging in the evening breeze. 1t was
rare production of village art, and dis
played to wondering eyes woman robed
in blue and crimson, with glory around
her head, thereby proclaming who La
Belle Marie was meant for, but certainly
debasing the pure-souled Jewish maiden
into robust nineteenth-century peasant
woman.
Whether the unlearned villagers of
Meinotte ever distinctly had a perception
of the ideal beauty so transformed, might
be question too serious to be answered
here. At the door of the hostelry. however.
needless of criticism, stood the host of La
Belle Marie, short, fat, and well-to-do,
surveying the knots of people with sat
isuCu uiI. IOt OuO luotdut uC tuIuCu
round to the interior of the house, the
next his smiling face was back. more smil-
ing than before, and he moved aside for
some one to pass.
The same one was young Pierre Grun-
ing, only son and only child of the land
lord OF La Belle Marie. Lightly he
stepped forth in holiday gear with silver
buttoned jacket and high conical hat. In
buttonhole he wore some white lilies,
and in his hand he carried handful of the
same dainty flowers. He did not stop to
speak. only nodded and smiled. and passed
along quickly. leaving behind the fragance
of the lilies. Every one knew why he
carried them, and the women smiled and
made jokes as he hurried beyond them.
The tinkle Of the bells came nearer and
nearer, the lowing of cattle was louder,
girls voices came along with it. and
then a minute after they were In sight.
Snowy caps, scarlet, brown. blue and
green skirts, flashed in the evening sun
light; laughter and chattering came rip
ping through the air, and the procession