The morning times., 1896-07-05
This Page Is for BOYS and Girls
Mickey's ssssssssssss ssss
5 Little 5
ssss sssssss..... Flower.

copyrighted, 1896, by Ernest Jarrold.
Bridget Finn was passiODateiy fond OF
flowers. In the summer her lattice Of
morning glories over the kitchen door was
at once the most Kaleidoscope floral ex-
hibit in the hamlet and the envy OF the
neigiibors. Her hollyhocks shone with more
vivid crimson color than those OF her rival
and her migonette emitted a more deli
cate perfume. Even i'll the winter a potted
sweetbrier bush, with prodgai liberality
wasted its honeyed sweetness in a vain
combat with boiling cabbage \ droop-
ing lily or tile valley climeI its yoiceless
tones in the sheltered corner OF the Kitchen
where the westering sun lent a touch of
warmth To the pallor OF its bells BIZ. as
the snow beat upon the window panes like
fine shot, Bridget realized with n sigh that
garrulUus March was still mist ress of
garden and meadow, and that April's
warm tears, pregnant with rcjuvenation,
would have to fan freely before the bius-
terer would loosen his grip OF ice
Bridget was born on Easter day 1t had
been her custom for years to decorate her
table on her birthday with flowers nurtured
by herself, together with a wild plant dug
from the woods by her son. Mickey
''Sorra Easter Day twill he this year"
she muttered. as Il vicious blast laden
with snow came down the chimney into
the fireplace. scattering sparks over the
kitchen floor. Faith, Mickey wouldn't
get hide nor hair OF n green thing in
tue woods this year, saving hernlock
branch. Divil's the flower he'd get to
mind me Of the dear little shamrock,
Then she sat down before the open fire
place, threw another log on the glowing
embers, and unused on the Vale OF Glen
more IN Ireland. where the grass was as
green IN February as 1t is in Kentucky
in July, and crooned to herself:
There's a dear little plant that grows in
our is!e,
And st. Patrick himself sure has bIest it,
And with dew from his eye often wet it,
1t grows in the bog, In the mire, In the
moorland,
And they call it the sweet little shamrock
OF Ireland.
And while she wandered in fancy
through the Vale Of GleDmore, and lis
tened 10 the hitting or the chafnnches
and innets, the storm ragged around the
shaDty, with ICY maIignity, and the flakes
added with gentle, silent, persistence to
the depths OF the white caIpct covering
the green things under the pine needles.
1t was 8 O'Clock ON the afternoon be-
fore Easter, when the boys burst out of
the schoolhouse door into the sto rm.
There were no tender memories OF by
gone years for them, the only retrospec-
ton being " dingy, overheated room
where tasks, of which they could see
no possible use, Were thrust upon them
with judicial severity with colt like e
vigor they rcveled in the storm. laughter
filled the air. and the cheeks paled by
confinement grew vivid and rosy with
quiCkcDiDe life. And, as little Nike
hiuDderei in upon his mother. buoyant
with vitality and covered with SHOW, and
fell upon his knees beside her. he looked
up and saw that her cheeks were wet.
"Arrah. mother, dear he said, with
tender solieitude. an wants achin' ye?
Is yer heart sore. shure, alIana, you
ought not To be -cryID. TJmorrOw's
your birthday, acushla, an yer only thirty
five year sold, an the light il IN yer eye. an
the blush is iii yer cheek, an the rent is
paid, an
.'Thrue for ye. Mickey" interrupted
his mother, wiping her eyes with her
apron, but / WAS thinkin' of the flow
ers in the Vale o Glenmure, an the
shamrocks, an shure l have no fresh
wild thing from the woods To mind me
of the time when / was young an sweet
like you. Mickey. darlint, an I'm that
heavy hearted. l dunno what to do at all,
al all. But don't tell your father, Mickey"
Mickey promised, and after cheering
his mother into a more cheerful frame
OF mind he went cut 10 feed the nan
uieguat. Mrs. Finn did not notice that
he had hidden the coal shovel under his
coat. II WAS u'clock when the door
closed behind the boy. Twilight was
rapidly mantlinS the valley with shad-
ows. If Bridget had raised her head and
looked out OF the window, she would
have seen her boy running down the Old
Point road with race-hofse speed. But
her view Of him would have been brief,
for he quickly ran out OF sight Of the
shanty and disappeared in The pcrspec-
tive OF eddying snuwflakes. He de
fair progress in the roadway. where the
track had been broken by passing teams,
but ewhen lie turned into the W cod
where the road dipped toward the river,
his progress was slower. The ma icsty
of the tall pines awed MIN a little, and
their heart-qua king tones chilled his en-
thusiasm, as he floundered along through
the snow. Now he crossed little oasis
of pine needles where the keen wind
had shOvelcd away the snow and again
he struggled through drifts waist high.
But, although he was chilled to the
marrow by the razor-like wind, his cour-
age never left him. And, as the shadows
deepeued, he inuttered between his
cIenchcd teeth:
FINDING THE ARBUTUS.
II know where they are. BY the big
rock where the violets grow. I'll twist
them around the sugar bowl in the morn
in before she gets up. She'll forget the
shamrock when she sees them"
On, glorious Hope, bourgeoDed with prom
iSaf D,rin in n ioVf