The herald., 1897-01-10

mine. had all the rose color taken out Of
his young life, and that now with the body
of an athlete, he must sit still, never again
hoping 10 walk among men, while his old
grandmotherS brown, wrinkled face and
rebosa-covered head is a daily novelty to
the eastern tourist. But If you should &c
You think again, on your quest for the lone
grandson. Pedro. 1t might only give you
the nearer grandeur of the sleepy old
mountain. but no adobe hut, and you might
discover that the beautiful grandson had
never been born. No, the story is too pa
thetically pretty to have proven a fallacy.
and are there not enough lonely homes
where hopelessly lame boys do really BE-
long, and hospitals full of them? The
grandmother is an entity and her violets
real punches of Heavens own Fragrance
Now your destination of delight is reach
ed. and oh, the glory of it! Eight years of
the daily vision of its like. finds you still
amazed that winter can call into existence
such fruits and flowers. AS you wait your
turn TO possess the great clusters of white
grapes. with a sprnkling of the taper
translucent cornichons, you hear again
the voice OF the violets. This time the dear
little punches of Parma beauties. white
and blue, peep from the rustic basket.
strapped over the breast of a tawny, vel
'vet-eyed. sweet-voiced Spanish girl, too
snares awaiting her young feet in the hotel
corridors. or at nightfall in the crowded
ttnorsoughlfares, In el or in the Plaza, where the
pan Sand VII play La Paloma;". and she, with
III,
Violets, fresh, sweet violets," she is cry
ing now. and there turns to the cry, a natty.
quick-stepping young business man. hur-
ryfng to his office to grasp the first money!
making opportunity Look! How has the
little violet nosegay so bewftched a pro-
sale man not given to foolishness. that as
he reaches out the price and receives the
flowers. he looks at them with eyes that
seei in their dewy blueness, the picture of
an old-fashioned garden thousands of miles
from the Angel City" where a sweet
faced woman is walking beside boy.
through paths all bordered and planted
with columbine. sweet Williams, honey
srckles and larkspur and the other old
time flowers he has not heard the names of
lor a1r, many a day. Then still through the
alchemy of the violets, there is a trans
formation scene. The garden on the shore
OF the old st. Lawrence Is mantled with
snow. and mother has gone from the famil-
lar paths, never to return. but the dear lit
tie violets have way of preaching ser
mons that sink as deeply into the heart
sometimes as the eloquence of Talmage or
Farrar. The business man. because of the
lets breath, will all the day emit from a
dormant grace, graciousness to Others. in
kindly thoughts. and helpful act perhaps
Tor some human brother.
Like the swift changes of Kaleidoscope,
there mingles together. the ever-changing
ihrongs OF this cosmopolitan city the yio-
let vender always a familiar figure. their
passage marked by trail OF LAGRANGE har-
monizing with the warm sunlight and
greenest verdure, as they cry their flowers
70 each passer-by. Here comes a sturdy
little chap, with bare, brown legs that are
p.entifully besmirched with the mould Of
the !i violet beds. and he sings out Justify:
Say Missus, don't you want desc vilets
dey amt paper or clof, but growed ones
Bless the little fellows heart. he might
wei think 1t incumbent for him to dis
tinguish between the real "Simon-pure''
article In his basket and the paper ones or
namenting all manner of souvenirs for
tourists money displayed in the shop win
dows, and the ''clof'' ones so profusely
worn in the garniture of women's cos
TUNES on the street. the violt fad pro-
claiming itself from every conceivable
point where effect can be emphasized in
fashionable garbng. the unpretentious
symbol OF lowliest simplicity twisted into
sun vreaths or grotesqus horns on their