Shenandoah herald. [volume] (Woodstock, Va.) 1865-1974, 1892-09-16


His declining years-for he was we'll
past the sixties-denied him recreation,
though on wet days he would occasion
ally put his macintosh over his should
ers and perch himself beside the pool
for which Bracebridge was IA nOu: and
natiently watch the f)at for hours at a
time. 1t is probable, however, that had
it been sunshine every day of the year
the fish would have been minus one
enemy. For the sunshine brought the
children out 10 play, the sunshine al
lowed him to walk in the paths Of his
garden and watch the growth of his
roses. On wet days he had neither chill
dren nor flowers, so he went to the fish
for consolation.
Old Holloway had two sources OF hap.
piness. His tiny cottage was known as
Rose Glen. If you ever went to Brace
bridge you would never dream Of going
away without looking over the wicket
gate and inhaling the sweet perfume of
the old mans rosee. They linel the
gravel pathway, for all the world like
floral sentries, as their owner passed. be.
tween them to the porch. Rose trees
were everywhere, and every single bios
som was as familiar to him as the seals
on his watch chain, and'he patiently fol-
lowed the progress Of each petal and the
unfolding of every bud with as much
pride and care as he would tnat Of the
growth of his own child. Yes, the
flowers brought old Holloway happiness.
Buthe loved the children more. He
once said that, when their tiny faces
were looking up at him and smiling,
they, too, were flowers. Every child in
Bracebridge knew old Holloway. They
called him grandfather. You never met
him in the lanes without a Child hang
ing to his hand or his coat tails. Why,
the dear old fellow would make a point
of passing by the school just when the
children were coming out. Then he
would let them play on the grass Of his
garden. Let theml Nay, he would
play with them, and his laughter seemed
as free as theirs, his shouts of merriment
as joyously innocent. Then when
the sun began to edge the hills
with gold and crimson, he would
merrily drive them out of his floral
domains, aud watch them wave their
hands as they turned the pathway at the
top Of the hill which led to the village.
As he retraced his steps to the porch he
would sometimes stand beside tree of
roses-great crimson blossoms-more
beautiful than ali the others. Their
color was richer than the sweetest OF the
blossoms on the neighboring bushes,
their perfume more fragrant. 1t grew
apart from them, too, on the lawn. He
would look at the name on the wooden
tablet and read the simple word,
"Marion." That was the name he had
given to his favorite tree-"Marion;"
and murmuring the word he would enter
the house very quietly.
One evening the children had all gone
he had bid them "goodby' as usual.
He turned to enter the house. A whole
week had passed since he had examined
his fsyorite rose tree. Crossing the
grassy awr he came to "Tne Marion. "
One of the great blossoms was droop-
ing, but just from the same green stalk
a fresh bud was shooting forth. The
old man took out his knife aud cut of
the faded flower. lie looked at the bud
thoughtfully. lie seemed to read story
among the roses-a story that went TO
his heart. lie looked again at the dead
blossom in his hand. Then his eye
wandered toward the bad. He burst
into tears, and quickly turned away.
sMy daughter, my darling Marion
/ was cruel to send you away, very
cruel. Asather's love for you made me
think it impossible for even husband