Frostburg mining journal. [volume] (Frostburg, Md.) 1871-1913, 1897-09-11
ASHES OF ROSES.

the day before had heard young and
charming woman accompanying herself
at the piano and singing the tenderest
of romances in which during the last
note the butterflies of the song linger
at the heart of the roses.
And the garden in which I was walk
ing was quite of character to foster
this gentle frame of mind 1t was not
wild or overgrown.
Its flower beds, where blue, red and
yellow balsams were ranged with as
much precision as the Sevres cups and
Saxony statuettes on whatnot of a
provincial housewives; the sand of its
paths, where the rake had left markings
as distinct, straight and exact as the
lines i'll bar of music, and its correct
and uniform borders, stiff as the frills
of dress that has not been crushed,
seemed to suggest the ambition of a
very pleasant ideal-an ideal in perfect
taste, without violence or exaggeration;
narrow, elegant, pretty and quite suit
ed to furnish water color subjects
A July sun lavished it's gold and
threw into the garden all the infinite
that a bouquet is capable of holding.
A butterfly which was fluttering
around like two flower petals set free
by the wind brushed past my hand,
leaving on it a little of its fine, white
powder.
"White butterfly" said I, for the re-
membrance of the song led me into
such conversation with this delicate
winged creature, "white butterfly, do
not hasten away, but stay, rather, and
settle down on this leaf-a flower would
take too much of your attention-and
ways wanted to ask you or one of your
kind
The butterfly poised himself on a
leaf. 81 am listening," said he. For
why should he not have answered,
since l had spoken to him?
Frivolous lover of roses and lilies"
l began, whence comes this delicate
powder you scatter from your wings as
you fly from flower to flower can you
gested the arts of the toilet to the per-
fumer, for yours are the only wings
that scatter whiteness like puff.
The butterfly said, "'Tis strange" !"
But as he had nothing to do he conde-
scended to enlighten me. am sure we
should learn many things that are not
in books and not known by learned
men if we chatted more frequently with
the insects of the woods and fields.
When auburn haired Eve was born at
16, an age at which the women of our
'time do not linger half long enough
in the miraculous Eden, teeming with
life and youth, she was plunged at
| first into an ecstasy of admiration at
the sight of so much magnificence, and
not the smallest pang of envy poisoned
her heart. Even before she had gazed in
to the nearest spring all creatures crowd
ed around to do her homage, and after
having seen her own radiant reflection
she conceived profound feeling of
compassion for all other created things.
The splendid lights in the lion s
name, luminous in the sunshine could
not rival the tawny brightness of Ewes
long, floating locks.
Why should she have been jealous of
the swan, since her own throat and
arms were made of living SHOWS or why
of the great vines in the forest, her own
embrace being far more treacherous
and more sweet?
The sky, in its deepest, clearest blue,
might have hoped to rival her eyes had
they not had softer and more eXqui-
site azure.
In fine, she looked at all things, and
great wave of pride came over her.
Without doubt" she said, "all is
very good, but then what of it all?"
And thereafter her favorite amuse-
ment was to sit under tree and pass
all the day kissing the'rosy tips of her
slender fingers.
Till one day she sawra rose {.
The rose was there before her, as yet
scarcely a rose, almost pale in its tri-
umphant grace. 1t opened anc widen
ed, radiant as star, luminous and liv-
ing, almost human, Like a woman.
A tiger passing that way fingered to
gaze on it and wept from tenderness.
Then Eve felt something stirred
within her. She understood that
throughout all eternity she had rival.
Beautiful as she was, the rose was not
less beautiful. Perfume against per-
fume, grace against grace, to the end
of time their charms would be pitted
against one another and there would
be an endless and unceasing struggle.
In vain impassioned poets of all ages
would try i'll enthusiastic madrigals to
prove to their mistresses the defeat of
the sovereign flower. Eve had no illu-
sions on the subject. The rose would
always defy her, and to woman's eter-
nal humiliation she would be compared
to her splendid and victorious rival.
A sadness, of which you can form no
idea, took possession of her, whose su-
premacy. acknowledged by all other
created things, was disputed by mere
l