Morning journal and courier., 1880-08-16
The Romance of the Rose.

It is with feelings tinged with tender, yet enjoyable, melancholy that upon some long Sunday afternoon you bring out an old port folio from the depths of forgotten trunk, or an old writing desk from dark corner of the lumber-room, and fall to examining curiously the little store of trifes that belongs to pe- riod of years ago-to that period of your life when you were so very young that you thought you were beginning to grow old. Old letters verses-how clever they seemed to you then; how silly they seem to you now "a page or two of the draft of that novel that you were going to write, the first scene of the act of your play how queer 1t all IS, to be sure And here, thrust in carelessly among these wrecked aspirations of your youth, is a dainty envelope-grown yellow with age-upon which are written the initials 'tE. L.," above date of more than twenty years ago, and within which are the frag ments of faded rose.
 What thrill 1t gives you as you come up- on this romantic token of love that once burned so brightly and that now lies dead and cold beneath it's own ashes. Very gently you open the envelope and shake out upon fair sheet of paper the dusty fragments -emblems once of love that was fresh and vigorous emblems now of love that is withered and dead forever. How confused, and ~yet how tender, are the memories which this sad dead \ rose recalls. You will not call her by her name now even in your thoughts, this 'sE. I.'' who gave you the rose so long ago you will fit the E to Elise and you will dream about her as Lisbet-a pretty diminutive that I seems properly to belong to the dainty little maiden who stole your heart away these long years ago. when you lived in the country and were just getting over being a boy. You re- member what tremor you were in the first \ time that you plucked up courage to call her \ Lisbet to her face-long, long after you had \ got into the habit of calling her Lisbet in her l thoughts. How delicious was her demure | 1<o1- -<afl h0xr ! mercy and swore never to be indiscreet again ' if mercy was granted, and how from that day | onward you called her Lisbet always But | that was before she gave you 8 rose. And 1 then you turned once more to the withered ] fragments and examine them curious1y. They l area dull, ashen brown but along their shriveled edges suggestion of pink survives. 1 Upon the remains of the calyx appear tiny spines. Yes, clearly, this once was a moss | rose-the symbol of ''Love returned" With
 the tender thought in your mind you fall to
 dreaming again, picturing to yourself that l fresh morning, years ago, when you went ! with Iisbet upon that memorable walk and
 she wore the rose-now dead utterly, but I then in the glowing freshness of life and col ! or-in the thick coils of her back hair. You picture her as she came out from the cool
 shadow of the veranda, tripping lightly down
 the steps and across through the sunshine to
 where you had been waiting for her, by the
 juniper tree, upon the lawn. What vision 1 of loveliness she was, to be sure-t'a combina-
 tion of white, :" emphasized by the brilliant 1 brown of her eyes, the black of her glossy
 hair and the creamy tones of her skin with just touch in her cheeks of 8 warm red, and
 in her hair this very rose. Yes, your heart futtered great deal as you led her away
 across the sunny lawn, through the shady path by the edge of the wood and so on to
 the seat among the rocks up by the head ot
 the pond. You felt that you were face to
 face with your destiny; that you were close l to all that you could ask of earthly happi-
 ness, or to all you could dread of eternal despair. It was, in truth Hateful walk
 but the fates smiled upon you. When you
 came back again your heart still huttered, but
 no longer with fear. All was well ended, and
 in your button hole nestled tenderly this very l rose. She no longer needed 1t 8 colol
 effect. As she walked by your side with 6
 timid tenderness, back into the sunshine ot
 the lawn her soft cheeks were redder than
 the roses, and her dropping lashes draped hel
 downcast eyes.
 And here before you are the ashy rem
 nants of the rose that meant so much when
 it was given that day, rich in it's youthful
 freshness more than twenty years ago here
 in the midst of youthful hopes which like il
 have faded slowly from the fitness of life in
 to death from which there is no returning
 Here it ies-a love embalmed, 8 mummy ot
 the heart, docketed ''E. L.'' with long age
 date dry and crisp and ready at touch tc
 resolve itself into a powder and be forever
 lost. And while you are thus moralizine
 moodily, your wife briskly opens the door
 to tell you that the early Sunday tea is ready "a little gust of wind sweeps across the
 room and the ashes of your rose fly away ii
 Q tiny, feathery cloud. However, it is nc
 great loss. In point of fact you have beer
 only day dreaming through this long Sunday
 afternoon and you have woven together
 this romance of the rose because for the lift
 of you you cannot remember who ''E. L.
 was or where she came from.