The Republican. [volume] (Oakland, Md.) 1877-current, 1878-05-11
THE STORY OF MAY.DAY.

Alas, children! the world is growing
old. Not that dear old Mother Earth
begins to show her 5000 (more or less)
years by stiff joints and clumsy move.
ments, by clinging to her winters rest
and her warm coverlet of snow, for.
getting to push up the blue-eyed violets
in the spring, or neglecting to unpacB
the fresh green robes of the trees. No,
indeed! The blessed mother spins
around the sun as gayly as she did in
her first year. She rises from her win
ter sleep fresh and young as ever.
Every new violet is as eXquisitely tinted,
as sweetly scented, as its predecessors
of thousand years ago. Each new
maple-leaf opens as delicate and lovely
as the first one that ever came out OF
its tightly-packed bud in the spring.
Mother Nature never grows old.
But the human race changes in the
same way that each one of us does.
The race had its childhood when men
and women played the games that are
now left to you youngsters. We can
even see the change in our own day.
Some of us-who are not grandmothers,
fourteen and fifteen played many games
which, nowadays, an unfortunate dam
sci of six years-ruffled, embroidered
and white gowned, with delicate shoes,
and hips in the vise-like grasp of a
modern sash-feels are altogether too
young for her. l dare say l shall live
to see the once beloved dolls abandoned
to babies; and | fear the next genera
ton will find Latin grammar in the
cradle instead of a rattle-box, and baby
cutting his teeth scientifically, with a
surgical instrument, instead of on rub
Der ring.
Well, well! What do you suppose
our great-grandchildren will do?
We must not let these old-fashioned
customs be forgotten, and want to tell
you the story of May-day. A curious
tale is told of the beginning of the May
day celebration, which is of more ven
cradle age than perhaps you know.
You shall hear it, and then you can be-
lieve as much as you choose, as all the
rest of the world takes the liberty of
doing; for although the grave old Ro-
man writers putin their books for truth
it is very much doubted by our modern
wiseheads, because it is so unreasona-
BILE and so inelegant Gas our dainty
critic says). As though the world was
always reasonable, forsooth! or I'M
doubted historical facts did not some
times lack the important quality of ele-
gance!
However it may be, here is the story:
Many hundred years ago-about two
hundred before Christ, in fact-there
lived in Rome beautiful woman
named Flora. Had she lived in these
luxurious days she would have enjoyed
another name or two; but in those SIM
pie times she was plain Flora.
Being human, this lady had a great
dread of being forgotten when she had
left the world. So she devised a plan
to keep her memory green. She made
a will giving her large fortune to the
city of Rome, on condition that festi-
val in her memory should be celebrated
every year.
When the will came before the grave
and reverend Roman Senators, it caused
serious talk. To decline so rich a gift
was not to be thought Of; yet to accept
the condition they did not like, for it
was bold request in Madam Flora,
who had, to say the least, done nothing
worthy of celebrating. At last, accord
ing to the old story-tellers, way out