The Indiana State sentinel. [volume] (Indianapolis) 1868-1895, 1891-06-10
A LILLE INCIDENT.
What "EHk" Saw on n Recent Visit to the
CITY

What "EIk" Saw n Recent Visit to the
City.
DEAR H. L. c. FRIENDs-It is some time
since l appeared in the al L. c." col
umns, and as my mind is adrift and ideas
are shoat, and claiming your forbearance,
l will tell you of a little incident that has
been treasured in my remembrance since
my visit to the city few weeks since, of
the shadaw and sunshine, of little girl,
with dove-like eyes of hope, and whose
soft smiles attract the soul.
Not always fine garments or bright eyes,
or childish loveliness; not always fine
horses or turnouts, not often the glory OF
sunshine or tender heritage, fail to attract
our attention, but who that walks the
streets fail 10 see little touches of nature,
little pictures that CLEAN out and bring
gentle thoughts rs often as remembered,
and in some way warm the heart as true
beauty always does.
At flower stand bowl of large golden
hearted marguerites stood amid the noise
and smoke of the city. The leaves stood
beautiful only in their purity; they were
but common field flowers, and dumb flow
ers, too, for the voice of perfume had been
denied them. There was a regaleness about
their erect heads and a calmness in their
aspect that struck one with certain awe,
seeing them thus grouped amid the raw
lshing and voluptuous blossoms OF GRIM
son, white and azure. While / looked
and marveled in dreamy idleness that
SEXES even practical people in the spring
days a kiss OF perfume was blown in my
face by bunch o. unseen violets on the
florists tray With what riotous demon
STATIONS the little flower friends
greeted me as / held them to my
lips. For flowers, like children, bestow
their caresses on the young and the beau
tiful, and on the old and weary alike,
when We faced about" little girl, whose
countenance was reckoning smiles and
azure fire burned within her golden locks,
stood on tiptoe beside the street table of
flowers, and after an anxious g'ance into
their abundance, she said to the florist:
"How much is one OF thOse?" pointing
her tiny fingers at the white bouquet.
"They cost cent piece" the man re-
sponded.
How that little face lighted up! Did he
see it? There are features which convey
to us a soul so white, they impress with
instant pleasure, and of this kind were
hers, with rare union of intelligence.
The little hand Enclosed, there was one
florist took the penny and gave the little
maiden the tallest and largest daisy
in the bunch. Unconscious of any
thing but her flower-her hower-she held
it by the tip of it's long stem, gazing into
Its face, as into the face of an angel, shy
in her Joy, stepping slowly, and, yet gaz-
ing at the daisy-the two, the maiden
and the snowy flower disappeared in the
CroWed street: know not where; won
der where. What sort of little girl she
must be, who spends a penny for flower
instead of tulu.
Farther on meet small boy; what is
it he guards so carefully in his hand2 A
cluster OF white lilacs; a dainty spray
that an artist might have gloried In, but
the last one an ordinary child would have
chosen. Here is the mate for the little
flower girl. This must be the other half
of that divine circle. which they say
is broken when humans come to
earth. The two halves thus severed,
legend runs, are constantly hunting for
each other, and the weddings that are
happy are but the harmonious welding of
the circle again-they are said to have
been mated in heaven" Will the little
flower boy ever find the little flower girl?
Will the penny from the soiled hand ever
meet, in the jostle of trade, the penny
that was clasped so tightly in her
little sunburnt fingers? Is there some
where a boy, poor, but of pure instincts,
who has a spray of white lilacs in his
humble home, as in another home a
daisy is cherished by girl, whose eyes
are OF the cerulean hue, and whose hair
the sunlight kisses, and whose unkempt
appearance did not obsure the soul that
burned within? Some one says there is a
cascade in lovely Swiss valley which the
fierce winds catch and scatter so soon as il
pours over the summit of the rock.
and for moment the continuity of the tall
is broken, and you see nothing but a
feathery spray, but if you look further
down the stream the Straubbach pours its
rejoicing waters as if no breeze had
blown at all. Nay, the blast which inter-
rupts it only fans it into moro marvellous
loneliness and makes it a shrine of beauty,
where all pilgrim footsteps travel. Just
so with the youth and maiden in nv
minds eye. The cruel blast of want may
visit their home and shut out light and
hope for a time, but instead of the shad-
ows darkening adown the stream, out OF
the dirt of their surroundings will their
souls blossom pure and fne-like the
snowy blossoms from the meadow boys
and il will be shrine of beauty" where
angel footsteps are heard.
This little incident struck my heart as
an unexpected minor chord touches me
when it quavers out of a majestic swell of
harmony. such impressions make my life