The Columbian. [volume] (Bloomsburg, Pa.) 1866-1910, 1895-08-02
A BUNCH OF DAFF0DILS.

Where ar. you going to spend your
Easter vacation?" Little Mita made her
way between property boxes and scenic
shrubbery to where the contralto was
waiting
AT home, dear; l spend all my vaca-
tions at home with the children. Poor
little things IL is so seldom they see
their father and mother that we never
let an opportunity go by for being to-
sether." The contralto's sentences,
like some of her strong notes, were
long, but they were as pure in thought
as the notes were in expression.
so you are going home for Eastern"
Hiss JEWELS step was light and they
had not heard her approach. The
breadth of carpet spread from her
dressing-room to the stage to spare
her dainty gowns and white shoes dead
ened the sound of her footsteps. Her
question was an idle one, asked sole
ly for the sake of saying something to
the contralto, whom she liked.
Yes, was saying to Mita that the
children hardly know they have a
father and mother. 1t always seems a
pity to me that parents and children
Should be parted, though of course it
is necessary sometimes"
There was a careless smile on Miss
Jewells lips as she came from her
dressing room. She knew that the au-
diency was anxiously waiting for her
to make her appearance; she knew
Just how the applause would ring out
when the curtain went down and how
an usher would come down the aisle
bearing bouquet of her favorite roses,
or, perhaps, basket heaped with pur-
pie and white yiolets. She loved the
MOVERS, she was proud of the applause
and she had child's fondness for the
color and light that were always about
her.
Where will you spend your holiday,
Miss Jewell?"
1t was Mita's question. One always
torgave Mita for asking questions on
matters that could not possibly inter-
est her; she was such a childish crea-
ture.
Il have not made any arrangements.
/ shall probably stay in town" A
rather thoughtful expression came to
Miss JEWELS face, for she remembered
a letter she had received only that
morning from little town among the
hills.
My daughter" the letter ran, your
father and would like to see Won.
hope we may soon."
Who but mother could write like
that?
She had folded the note and nut II
away in her desk. 1t would be inn
possible for her to go to Dale for the
Snort vacation of Easter week, and she
knew ha
get away from Dale after stay of only
a DAY or two. And then the Allyns had
asked her TO accompany them to Old
folht, ana he had made up her mind
II they insisted she would go.
1t had been a long time since Alice
Jewell had paid visit TO Dale. Last
summer she had been in the West: one
weeks vacation last winter had been
spent In New York shopping; summer
before last she had been yachting with
the Bainbridge-Glad In one wav
and another it had been three years
since she had felt the clasp of home
hands and received the warm kiss of
those who loved her best and whose
PRIDE she was. To be sure, papers with
notices were always sent home; each
birthday and holiday was marked by
appropriate gifts the father had a
warm coat for Christmas and the
mother a shell comb and the other
trihes that mothers love, but the
daughters presence had been lacking.
Ihe audience was waiting for the fair
singers appearance. The basso and
contralto had sung their song and little
Mita had added her bit of color TO the
scene; then the gracious beautiful
singer came softly on in her creamy
robes and was singing her song as the
lark sings as he rises up and up from
the meadow in earliest morning. Tri-
umphant in its strength her voice rang
out, and when the curtain ran down the
applause arose, sounding to those be-
hlnd the scenes like the swapping of a
brisk fire in undorbrush.
The curtain slowly rolled up and an
usher glided down the aisle, as she
knew he would, and the leader leaned
forward with her bouquet in his hand.
Then as the applause continued the
leader tapped the stand with his baton
and the first vionl took up the air of
the song she had sung, and she repeat
ed the refrain and the curtain went
again, with her standing there with the
Mowers in her arms. They were not
roses this time, nor yiolets fresh as IL
rain-washed, but great, yellow daffo-
oils, creamy at the tips OF the petals
and deepening to the richest yellow in
their cup-like hearts and eXhaling an
odor like nothing else upon this earth
"a combination of spTingtime scents. a
suggestion of cowslips and springing
grass blades, on damp moss in the
woods. Holding the flowers In her
arms, she passed back to her dressing
room.
She pushed aside the articles on the
shelf under her mirrof and laid the
flowers there. II had been her wont
to fasten some OF the blossoms she re-
ceived each night in her dress and hair.
Some one out there in the audience