Washington standard. [volume] (Olympia, Wash. Territory) 1860-1921, 1904-08-19
HER BUNCH OF VIOLETS.
A Legend Of Newspaper Office.
LUE F. VERNON.

back from luncheon with bunch oil
violets pinned to her coat. 1t was a
sign that she had been out with some
one who cared for her, and she was
willing that every one in the office
should read the sign. Her face showed
a pleasant glow of consciousness al
she hung up her wraps.
Then she took drinking glass
washed and polished it brightly, filled
it with water, plunged the stems o.
the sweet blossoms into it, and set il
on her desk.
1t happened that she was employed
in the Office of weekly paper, the
force OF which was crowded into a few
rooms in q way that made one large
family of its members. Presently the
proof,reader strolled in and paused
near Miss Blake's desk. She clicked
away busily, but knew all the time
that his eyes were fixed on her bunch
OF violets.
"It's nice to feel that I'm the
means of letting him have that little
Whit of sweetness" she thought com
placently, as he passed along.
A few minutes later the foreman o.
the composing.room stopped at hel
elbow. He was looking at her vio
lets, too, but when she glanced up al
him he gave a start, as if he had beer
caught at something, nodded awk
wardly, and hurried off. Then the
office-boy did the same thing, and two
of the typesetters came after.
"They're all enjoying them," unused
the little typewriter. II feel like a
regular missionary"
Before night every person in the Of
fee had stopped for gaze, and last o
all, the editor himself actually came
and sat down by the machine, ap
parently for the sole purpose of ad
miring that bunch of violets.
He is a genial, kindly man, with
hair that is turning to silver, and
Miss Blake respects him thoroughly
After q moment he said, in voice sc
low that no one else would hear:
"I have been wondering for ar
hour past whether l should come ir
here and tell you something, and
have decided to do it. You're fond o.
flowers, aren't your"
The typewriter acknowledged tha,
she was.
So was Walter Hill," replied the
editor, with seeming irrelevancy. "Ht
used to write tender little sonnets te
blossoms, telling them how he loved
to caress them where they grew, but
couldn't bear to tear them from theil
roots, and all that sort of thing. But
strangely enough he had most un
fortunate temper, that would breal
out now and then as long as he lived
There's story about him to the effec,
that he once flew into such a rage
with the cook that he threw her out
of the window-and then, instantly
remembering the flower bed under the
window, cried out, 90! l forgot the
violets!' Yes, amusing, isn't it
Well, do you know, you have been re-
minding me of that story to-day"
"I-don't understand"
al know you DON'T" was the answer
spoken very gently, "and I shouldn't
tell you, except that think ISIS
kinder to let you know. 1t isn't a
case of temper with you, but the fact
is, you've been letting your thought.
of these flowers take precedence ol
your thoughtfulness of other people
and you've been grumbled at this af.
ternoon by everybody in this Office
because you had taken the ouly drink.
ing-glass in the place for your violets
and never once noticed when all the
thirsty people came in and glared at
you for doing it,"
1t was hard lesson, but the little
typewriter took it like hero-and she
proved that her fault had truly been
lack of thought rather than lack OF
heart by gratefully insisting that her
employer take that bunch of violets
home to his wife.