Ellsworth American. [volume] (Ellsworth, Me.) 1855-current, 1892-08-04
The Rose is Queen.

og'icn I tab standard.
June is the month OF roses and the rose
Is queen of all the flowers that bloom
III the garden. Her subjects are every
where and most beautiful but she is
peerless. She sheds her sweetest fra
srancc on the rude winds that toss her
about and on the hand oui>tretched 10
crush. Her plea>an, face beams from
tho hedges by the wavsite aud from
over the hastiou wall when wars red
hand j. darkeniug every home
To physical senses .he j. mere
thing, 70 spi. itual eyes she j. the true
essence Of all that is soul That spot is
evcrmore sacred where young eyes
first looked upon her loneliness AID
young hearts first knew and understood
her purity. Long years may pass
away aud the feet tread paths Of wick
edness the ocean may roll between
and mountains rise up 10 touch the
ky. but where she burst into life ui.-
der the Vine that hangs from the porch
there viii forever be home She is
queenly glory On the white throat Of
the fair bride n fair and beautiful as
she. and from Tia, throne on the coarse
lapel OF the workman She whispers Of
the loving fingers that placed her there
till unconscious lips murmur Home,
sweet, sweet home and strai .htwAy
the burden OF labor becomes labor OF
love.
Whatever may be the hue there is
but one rose and She is queen:
a, er>t in Eden. bli>.ful bowers.
Young Eve surveyed her countless flowers,
An opening rose OF purest white
She marked with eyes that beAmed delight
1t, leaves she kissed. aud straight il drew
From beauty's lip The yermeii hue"
A beautiful story is told Of Mungo
Park. He had lost his way, ana over
come by thirst and hunger sat down TO
die. The heat Of Afrca'- pitlle,s sun
beat heavily on him. and like the
breath Of furnace the desert winds
swept over him. He buried his face
IN his hands and waited tor death.
sweet deiyerer death, to come The
vision of the old home that he might
not see again came up before him.
There the harebells were blooming
and there the vines were climbing
about the windows and happy, halfhid
faces were looking ont. He must try
once more, but his knees bend under
him and his feet refuse to 90. He falls
heavily down. All, what is this so
near at hand: Ii is wild rose bloom
ing in the shadow of the rock and for
many miles this is the only one In
stinctiyely he pulls at it +; the trail turf
Yields and it is in his hand. In the
frenzy Of awakening memory be caress-
IS it and calls it by the sweetest names.
He holds it from him and SURVEYS il
over and over. There are tears in his
eyes and all his manhood and courage
are coming back. He presses it to his
lips, kisses it again and again. He
talks to it, talks as the mad mother
talks to the broken kite, the half-worn
shoe, the soiled glove that her darling
will use no more. The vision grows.
The picture is no longer a mirage of
the desert-it is reality itself. There
true TO life is the house, and in its an
Gent gable his own room Just as he
left it when he went away when he
turned his face toward the great
woodland his heart was full of tears.
There is the open door, the door wide
open for him, and his mother standing
in it reckoning. There is the chill
dren's play ground and hard by the
bubbling spring. the spring bubbing
over and whipping down the hill. There
are the beds of pansies and the he'd &c
of roses, and the breath of clover ris-
ing out of the meadow. There are the
barns and the stables, where workmen
are tossing the fragrant hay over the
high beams and swallows are building
rustic homes in the caves. There are
tine old family horses and the cows.
just as he saw them last; patient and
kind old Dobbin looking wistfully over
the gate and the wide-eyed cows lying
down in the deep shadow of familiar
trees. The picture rises before him
like the TRANSPORTATION. The new found
rose will be his shibboleth and in this
sign must he conquer He cannot die
there, he must live, live to see the face
of his mother and to hear the voices
that float on the winds at eventide. He
must die in the arms Of those who love
him. His energies return. The same
courage that animates the fainting
gladiator when he hears the tumuItu-
GUS cry habet habet, echoing among |
the rafters in the blood-dyed amphi-
theater, fills his heart and slowly aud |
painfully he makes his way. he knows
and cares not where. His eyes seem
protruding from their sockets and
fecks of red foam are on bis bistered
lips but he tolls brayely on. There is
ringing in his ears and stupor over.
whelms his senses. But the thoughts
of home and mother and the rose be-
fore the door spur him on. In delir-
ium he wanders into a native village.
where cOrdiaIs are mt tn his Inns and