Ellsworth American. [volume] (Ellsworth, Me.) 1855-current, 1901-08-14
THE PERFUME Z
u OF ROSES
BY VIRGINIA DARE.

The editor, entering his office, finds
on his desk parcel addressed in a
feminine hand. He cuts the string,
saying, "a book, no doubt" He re-
moves the wrapper and finds box,
damp, as though water soaked. Rails
ing the lid. he looks down, not upon a
book, but flowers glowing, fragrant
roses, pink. crimson and white-lying
in nest Of green leaves, their petals
wet and shining as with dew; old FASH
Toned roses, too, not the rare product
of scientific culture, but the simple
blossoms of village gardens. The state
ly pink thousand leaf, the ruby sheen
OF damask rose, the crimson glow of
cabbage rose and the velvet petals Of
a white 'bride''-all were there.
From his grave eyes, grown weary in
looking at sooty walls and smoke cloud
ed skies, the shadows steal away, and
into them creeps a tender light, over
them a mist falls, which is almost
tears.
TITS such a weary while since he
has looked on such as these. Boyhood
and youth in these days Of strenuous
life seem far away. He buries his face
in the roses and-dreams. AS he dreams
the gates of memory swing open wide.
Once more he sees the little river rip
pling along between its willow lined
banks. He hears the whir of the old
mill wheel as it turns and turns, and
the hills look like high green walls,
sweeping up and back from the village
and river. 1t is evening. The sunset
light CLEANS redly on the rivers breast.
Down the long street, driven by tow
headed urchin, come some sleek bodied
cows. going to pasture, their bells tin
king gently as they move.
Through the thick foliage he catches
a glimpse of white walls. His heart
throbs fast. Within their shelter she
dwells-she whom his heart holds dear.
Beside him low whitewashed fence
runs. At the gate he pauses. He push
es it gently. 1t opens, and before him
lies graveled path bordered with dear
old time flowers close by the walk The
rich, spicy fragrance of Glove and Gin
namon pinks assaults the nostrils. Far
Their in are blue larkspurs, the graceful
sweep Of princes feather, with the gold
Of bachelor buttons and purple column
bine, with folded wrapper where tur-
tie doves dwell" marigolds and clear
faced johnny jump ups and amorous
sweet williams-a revel of color every
where. And beyond the flowers an
orchard Of apple trees with squat,
gnarled trunks, branches low hanging
and laden with promise of fruit in the
autumn.
In the orchards midst is low ram
bling house, with it's encircling porch
and wide, swinging easement. Behind
the house are q vegetable garden and
spacious barns-a picture Of plenty.
Clinging to the walls and crawling over
porch roof, peering into windows, Is a
climbing rose, hanging weary with it's
weight of beauty. And at every cor
ner roses-the modest sweet brier and
all the old beauties. Here by his hand
stands the queen of them ala rare
white moss rose, white as snow, faint
pink tint in its fragrant heart. He al
ways thinks of her when he looks at
these roses. She is like the flower in
her purity and loneliness. Under the
caves by the door he waits and listens,
then knocks gently. His heart leaps at
q gentle step and he thinks
She is coming. my love. my sweet.
With airy tread
Ny heart will awaken and beat
Has it lain for century dead?
In tine wide doorway she stands. SO
silently she moves, he scarce knew her
there. In her dear eyes so true, SO
sweet, there is q gladness which tells
him his welcome-the welcome her lips
are too shy to utter.
In her dark hair shine the yelvety
petals of white moss rose, in one deli
cate hand she holds another; just as
in his heart and life he holds her-his
rose maiden.
The shadows of twilight Unfold them.
Above them one by one the stars peep
out. Across the river in the wood a
whippoorwill calls plaintively: clat-
ter of wheels and hoof beats In the
street-then silence.
They are so happy there in the old
porch in the fragrant night. By and
by he asks her to sing. He loves to
hear her sing. Her voice is sweet and
clear like lark's notes.
She sings "Lorena," and he wonders
why she chose so sad song. He
thought afterward he knew. How ten
derby he clasped her hand through that
last verse. Her voice trembled, too, as
she sang:
There is future, Oh thank Godl
OF life this is SO small part
IT'S dust to dust beneath the sod.
But there-up there-'tis heart to heart.
How clearly he can hear her voice
now and the pathetic words! How soon
1t all ended and changed life for him!
1t is June here in the great hot city, but
away up there among the hills Of New
England the little river is ripping and
singing on its way to the sea. The air
is perfumed from myriads Of blossoms.
He sees the old graveyard behind the